


Be careful what you wish for

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Heavy Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, holmescest, mylock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-06 22:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: When Sherlock asks, has Mycroft ever refused?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Too many days since I last posted in this ship so here we go again !! Comments are always a thrill, so do drop a line !!

 

 

 

 

It was a few years after Sherlock had moved to London and it was a few months after his latest overdose and rehab episode. He had finally moved out of his earlier rooms to a better flat in Baker Street and Mycroft had dropped in to visit him. Dressed in his infernal suit, not a hair out of place, lips pressed together in that constant grimace of disapproval.

Holding that blasted umbrella.

 _Damn that umbrella_ Sherlock thought with utterly irrational vehemence. Something about the way Mycroft’s fingers curled around the handle, the way he leaned on it so delicately, the way it followed him with the slightest swing…He HATED that umbrella.

If there had been a dispassionate psychoanalyst (and is there any other kind??!) listening in on this rant she may have offered up a possible explanation.

_Could it be jealousy? Was Sherlock’s subconscious remembering a time when Mycroft’s fingers had held HIS hand, when he had leaned on HIS shoulders in passing, when it was HE who would swing behind him, hand- in- merry hand?_

She may also have turned to ask Mycroft why indeed, when he was licensed to use a gun and was skilled in the highest level of martial arts, always surrounded by or at least followed by security, why he indulged in the umbrella.

_Did he miss holding someone’s hand? If not for the umbrella would there be an empty space next to him where someone always used to be?_

But alas, in absence of said psychoanalyst, neither of them were called upon to reveal their innermost thoughts.

Feelings.

Emotions.

A chemical defect on the losing side.

They remained brilliant, logical, untainted by sentiment.

.

.

Sherlock had now started pacing the living room like a caged tiger, babbling ceaselessly about idiots and noises and Mind Palace and how everything was so borrring and….he HATED his transport and its pathetic NEEDS……

He was jittery and annoyed and suddenly twisted in his path to loom large in front of Mycroft, somewhat threateningly and had held on to the arm rests and leaned into his space. He had taken a deep breath and inhaled a lung full of that very very unique fragrance that was Mycroft.

The same cologne that he had started using since he left for University. Ugh. As much a creature of habit as he was one of chaos, Sherlock thought with disdain. He sniffed again. Faint molecules of smoke. A hint of leather. Wood polish. Expensive wool. Tea. Black tea.

It was like a kaleidoscope had been twisted and all the broken shards inside him fell into place and a pattern emerged. Perhaps the smell triggered off a memory of being comforted in bed as a child. His safe space. His refuge from the idiots in the world he was forced to inhabit.  

Perhaps it made him suddenly aware that his annoying big brother wasn’t just a presence or a dimension of his Mind Palace, but he came with his own body. His own Transport.

Sherlock stilled, aware all at once, of the possibilities.

In all these years he had never, _ever_ , wanted to touch another human being intimately. He knew the theory of sex of course and the irrational and rational reasons why others in the human race indulged.

But he had felt _absolutely no desire_ to undergo it even as an experiment.

So far.

However, right now, standing in front of Mycroft, leaning into his space, even as his brother stared back at him, steely grey eyes, unperturbed, he had this intense desire to ….he blinked.

He wanted to tear Mycroft’s clothes off. _How many layers did he wear anyway?!!_ Like a Russian doll…maybe there were just smaller and smaller Mycrofts all the way in….

He suddenly had this intense desire to see what was inside those layers.

He wanted to mess up his ridiculously combed hair. He wanted to wrench that stupid STUPID umbrella away out of his hands and tangle his own fingers inside those elegant ones.

He wanted to ….he wanted to push Mycroft against the wall….no…on to the bed…and then he wanted to lie down on him and hold him down and….

Oh….he wanted to have sex with him…..

In an instant it was all clear. Obvious even.

This is what had been itching under his skin ever since he had come to London and seen Mycroft that first day at the train station. This desire, the siren call, the muddled chemical messages that his brain had not been able to interpret correctly, because he had no data.

More accurately, he had no framework for his data!

.

.

He stood up now and walked away rapidly and looked out of the window. His pulse had quickened and he could feel his mouth watering at the thought.

He willed himself to focus. He needed to have a clear head if he was to win in any kind of negotiation with Mycroft. Though he already knew that Mycroft could usually be persuaded to do almost anything for him. Either the threat of Mummy’s feelings or too much trouble for society at large or….he remembered now…so many indulgences from childhood, for no reason but to keep him happy. Mycroft really did care about him. Or at least he had. He did want him to be happy.

_Surely he would not deny him this? It would not cause any harm and it’s not like Mycroft had any feelings for him, any more than he did. They could do this in a logical rational way without getting messed up the way the goldfish seemed to._

There was absolutely no point in playing games because Mycroft would deduce what he wanted instantly…in fact he probably already knew what Sherlock was going to ask.

Sherlock turned to face him and said “I want to…no I need to have sex Mycroft. There is a restless itch under my skin. A constant noise in my head. A craving that isn’t just for drugs. As an experiment. I need more data.”

“Sure." Mycroft shrugged disapassionately, as though Sherlock had expressed a desire to play a different kind of instrument. “Go ahead. You are in the middle of London. Everything is available for a price. Just be safe and keep your phone with you in case you need to call me for………”

Sherlock interrupted him impatiently.

“Don’t be obtuse Mycroft. You know very well that I cannot tolerate being touched by anyone.”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows and tapped his umbrella.  “It’s a little tricky to manage a sexual encounter without any contact…” he mused. “Not impossible but…”

Sherlock interrupted again. Annoyed and increasingly awkward. He could feel a faint flush rise up from his chest onto his cheeks. _Damn Mycroft. He was going to make him say it explicitly wasn’t he?!_

“Being touched by anyone _else_ Mycroft. You have always known my thoughts even before I knew them myself. Stop being so ANNOYING. Do you _really_ not know what I want??”

  
“Perhaps I do…. _little brother_.” Mycroft said in a voice that held a mild warning and the last two words held a particular emphasis. He tilted his head. “But if that is what you want then you will have to ask for it. Clearly and directly. It will simply not do to have misunderstandings in such matters.”

“Ok FINE!!!”Sherlock said as he let out a great sigh and flung himself down on his chair. “Your way. Always your way. I want to have sex with you.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping on the umbrella handle. “And will this be a one- time experiment? Or would you be expecting some sets of data to be gathered for a scientific analysis?”

“I don’t KNOW Mycroft” Sherlock said, almost in whine, sounding like a kid who had been taken to a candy store for the first time in its life and was being asked to make rational decisions.  “Let’s say we start with one and then we can re-negotiate?!!”

“Oh Sherlock.” Mycroft said, in a pitying voice that Sherlock detested more than any other. It was the voice Mycroft used on him when he was already miles ahead of him in seeing where this was going to lead. “This is not a negotiation. This is a containment. This is also, bizarrely and ironically enough, me keeping my promise to Mummy to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

With a shake of his head he delicately pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. He looked back at Sherlock. “Tonight at my place. Come for dinner. Having a meal together could be part of the variables if one does need more data sets."

“Oh…good heavens!! Am I to be forced to watch YOU eat too?!!” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

Mycroft merely sat there and gave him a thin smile. One….two…. three seconds later Sherlock groaned.

“Yes. OK!! 8 pm. Tonight. Now GO Away!! I have an experiment with a dissected heart that I need to complete before we meet.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does turn up as planned and Mycroft has a fleeting glimpse of what happiness could look like.

Sherlock stood outside Mycroft’s front door at 8 pm sharp.

Earlier that day he had been unable to believe that Mycroft had agreed to do this! He had wondered if he had misunderstood or even imagined the entire episode. But then he had replayed the entire conversation back in his head, and nope, it had been crystal clear. It had been real. His imagination wasn’t good enough to conjure up that smell. That had been real. Heady and almost intoxicating. He couldn’t wait to be able to get so close to Mycroft again. To smell him again.

This evening.

So he had planned to finish his experiment before he needed to get ready, but had found himself strangely unable to concentrate. He had cut the heart open with the scalpel of course and examined the four chambers. He shook his head at the knowledge that the ordinary people thought feelings and emotions and love came from the heart. _Idiots_.

It was all in the Mind. That was the seat of one’s consciousness and the sub- conscious and all the memories and dreams and identities.

The heart? It was merely an organ to pump blood around.

The goldfish spoke of ‘broken hearts’ as though it was a fragile thing made of glass. He poked it with the blunt end of the scalpel. It was tough. Elastic. Springy.

Of course it would stop if there was a blood clot, or the coronary was blocked or the strain was beyond its capacity. Sure, one could cut it up and shred it too…. but ‘break’ it? Huh. Idiots. Always with the useless illogical sentimental metaphors.

Soulmates. Love. Eternity.

Load of nonsense.

He wondered fleetingly whose ribcage this heart had been cut out from.

.

.

When he was done with the experiment, he threw it in the trash and went to shower.

 _Should he spend any time in figuring out what to wear?_ He dismissed the idea almost at once. People dressed well to attract someone with whom they would then spend pointless amounts of time doing dull and tedious and bafflingly boring things so that they would eventually agree to have sex with them.

After all the entire fashion and lifestyle industry was based on that.

But he didn’t need to. He already had someone.

The only one whose touch he would ever tolerate. And he had already agreed to have sex with him.

So he wore his most comfortable shirt and jeans, shrugged on his coat and set off for Mycroft’s place.

.

.

He reached there at 8 pm sharp and stood outside the front door, unsure of whether he wanted to break in or ring the doorbell. But of course Mycroft must have seen him on the security camera and he opened the door, welcomed him in and helped him out of his coat.

Mycroft was barefoot, which made him look somehow…….vulnerable. Unguarded.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why that sight affected him so much. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Mycroft without shoes, let alone without socks……The Most Dangerous Man in Britain was standing in front of him, with his fragile toes unprotected and an oddly soft smile on his face. He was wearing a button down pale blue linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up……..and his hair was less perfectly combed than usual, some curls escaping, making him look so much younger…..

The word _delicious_ may have crossed Sherlock’s mind. He blinked.

 _Wait… what?!_ …….his brain stuttered….. as a wonderful smell wafted in from the kitchen.

_Yeah, that must have been what triggered the word association._

Sherlock sniffed.

“Did you make Cook’s famous Sunday roast??” he asked in astonishment. He hadn’t eaten it since Cook had passed away seven years ago. It had been the only dish which would induce him to sit at the dining table and eat, as opposed to wandering through the house being followed either by Mycroft or Mummy, who would feed him spoons of whatever it was that had been cooked for the day.

Mycroft smiled. “It was always your favourite. And there is trifle pudding to follow. Not a very healthy menu I am afraid but I thought it may be better for……well for this evening for you to have what you enjoy rather than a plate full of sprouts and quinoa like me.”

They sat down for dinner and Mycroft ate his salad and a bit of the roast. But he served Sherlock generous helpings of everything, including the pudding and watched him eat it all up.

It made him feel what he would have cautiously labelled as _happiness_.

He could never be sure really. It had been too long since he had felt it in its pure and un-adulterated form.

.

.

Sherlock sat and ate, feeling oddly comfortable and satisfied. The roast had brought back so many memories of childhood. Of home. Of safety and ………was that a sense of happiness? It had been fleeting when he looked back on it. But it had been there. As long as Mycroft was there. He had left for college and Sherlock’s world had turned grey. Filled with a hissing white noise.

He had hated Mycroft for abandoning him, then he had wanted to punish him but couldn’t stay away from him. That had led to his moving to London and those traumatic four years with drugs and almost ceaseless hostility. He had just come out of rehab last week, for the second time around and today, for the first time, was wondering who had really been punished and whose fault it had been.

Mycroft hadn’t left willingly. He knew he had tried to reach out to him while away. Letters, phone calls. All of which Sherlock had rejected. Viciously and cruelly. And repeatedly.

Despite all that, here they were.

What had made him ask Mycroft for such an absurd thing today?! And _what the hell_ had Mycroft been thinking??!!

Surely he had said yes only because he was worried Sherlock would turn to drugs again….. _Why would Mycroft want to associate with him any more than was essential?_

He probably represented everything that Mycroft hated.

No discipline. No planning. No politeness. No tact.

Just demands. Just chaos.

Anything to keep his brain from sinking into boredom. And only Mycroft was brilliant enough to keep him from the edge of that abyss.

It was either Mycroft or the 7% solution.

This evening he would probably find out which one worked better.

.

.

He looked up from his ruminations to find Mycroft smiling at him faintly.

“You haven’t heard a word I have been saying have you?!”

Sherlock just chewed furiously and scowled at him.

_Yes. I am born to disappoint you Mycroft. Accept it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes ahead and does something he had never really planned to.

Mycroft had noticed Sherlock’s distracted mood over dinner.

He wondered if it was because he had called Sherlock’s bluff…..in a way.

He knew that Sherlock loved pushing boundaries. He hated rules. Always had. And he loved to do something that would throw the rule book in people’s faces. Something that would challenge them to see the stupidity or the petty-mindedness of their behaviour.

Of course Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate as a child. Mycroft smiled when he remembered that.

He had always preferred using defiance where Mycroft would go for diplomacy. He had always preferred to reign with chaos where Mycroft had preferred control.

What Sherlock had never understood was that Mycroft believed in the same things. He also believed….. no, in fact he _knew….._ that all rules were not meant for everyone. But he also knew that there were only two ways to break the rules. Either do it openly and risk being caught, or do it covertly, in the shadows and in fact be appreciated for doing that.

There was no one on this planet who had never broken any rule. No one. And every rule that was broken had a price to pay. It just depended on whether you got caught and who caught you.

He knew that Sherlock had seethed in anger at being sent to the rehab centre a second time. He hated it there. But Sherlock had also realized that he needed it because despite all his declarations of being ‘just a user’, he was now an addict.

He was no longer in control and that was not acceptable to Mycroft. He had almost died of an overdose that day and it was not going to happen again. Not on his watch.

He wondered earlier today if Sherlock had genuinely felt some desire to have sex with him or he had decided that this was the final taboo he would try and push Mycroft to break.

To see if chaos would finally win over control.

Maybe he had never expected Mycroft to agree so easily.

Ever since he came over this evening, Sherlock hadn’t said anything to indicate that he still wanted to have sex. Perhaps he was wondering how to get out of it now.

Mycroft was willing to wait and see how it went. If Sherlock decided against it, at least they had spent a pleasant evening together and that was fine.

.

.

As they cleared the table after dinner, Mycroft was attempting to engage Sherlock in a conversation about some book that he had been reading. When he opened the refrigerator to take out another bottle of wine he felt Sherlock come and stand behind him and put his hands on his waist. He stopped, frozen and almost dropped the bottle of wine.

“Are you going to keep us busy eating and drinking and talking so that you can get out of our agreement Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded impatiently, moving close to him.

Too close.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a second and swallowed and regained his balance.

“No Sherlock.” He said calmly, as he twisted around and out of his grip and shut the fridge door. “I am merely trying to give you more complete data sets. Unless you know what is possible, how can you know what is missing? What you really want? Maybe all you want is companionship. I just … I want to make sure you really, _really_ want this. And that _this_ is what you really want.”

“I want it Mycroft. I am sure. I really, _reall_ y want it! And _this_ is what I want and I want it NOW!” Sherlock said emphatically.

“Ok. Ok!” Mycroft said, raising his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, as he guided him out of the kitchen and to the living room.

They sat on the sofa and Mycroft looked at him very seriously. “We will have sex, as you want it, but I have two conditions.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “Are you going to tell me _now_ that this is illegal and immoral and all kinds of other tedious and pointless things?! Incest laws are meant to protect minors and rightly so. But I am already 25 and _I_ asked you \---not the other way around and we are never going to have kids together and we are never going to tell anyone else what we did and morals are meant for the ordinary folk with their tiny pathetic brains and their irrational fear of invisible beings and the answer to anything you want to say right now is I DON’T CARE!!”

Mycroft just looked at him coolly after this outburst and drummed his fingers against the sofa.

“It isn’t about the law Sherlock.” He said, thoughtfully. “I dare say that between the two of us we have broken dozens of laws already and kept them off the books. In fact, I probably earn my rather generous paycheque by making sure I know exactly _which_ laws can be broken, by _whom_ and _when_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that.

“So Sherlock, these two conditions have nothing to do with the law or morals but they are important.” Mycroft said firmly. “And they are non –negotiable. If you break either of them……..our arrangement will be over. For good. So please listen and let me know that you agree.”

Sherlock gave him a piercing look that seemed to say _go on then, tell me, do your worst._

So Mycroft took a deep breath and counted them off on his fingers.

“First. We will never kiss on the lips.

 Second. You will never let emotions come into the interactions.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s it?!! These are you ‘ _conditions_ ’?? Oh for god’s sake Mycroft!! It’s not like I am asking to marry you!! Yes. Yes. Whatever you say. So..…. can we just get on with it now??!”

Mycroft nodded. He got up from the sofa and helped Sherlock up and they went upstairs to his bedroom. He was surprised when Sherlock didn’t shrug his hand off right away but held it till they reached his bedroom.

He pushed open the door.

He had already prepared the room and kept only the night lamp on, casting everything with a soft warm glow.

.

.

Underneath all that bravado and impatience, Mycroft could see that Sherlock was a bit awkward and maybe even a bit nervous. Not that he would ever confess to that.

Mycroft’s heart melted.

_This unique, brilliant, magnificent creature. Who could have anyone he wanted-----anyone at all. And for whom hundreds, if not thousands, would be willing to step up to offer him this. But he had asked for Mycroft. To take him through this experience. He was the only one allowed to touch him._

_To be granted this privilege. For privilege it was._

“Look at me Sherlock.” He said softly. “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. Then let me decide what we should do and how. And if this doesn’t repel you entirely, there could be more occasions. With me. Or…….perhaps with someone else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft shook his head.

“Just don’t think that we have to do everything at once. Ok?” He was gently undoing the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt as he spoke.

His fingers brushed against Sherlock’s neck as he tried to take his shirt off and Sherlock almost jumped at the contact.

“Easy! Easy!” Mycroft murmured. “Come here.” He coaxed him back, getting his shirt off, feeling more like a horse whisperer than someone about to take a lover to bed. He smiled at the thought. _Sherlock was like a Mustang in a way wasn’t he? Wild. Free-roaming. Graceful._

He looked at him now, the flat planes of his stomach and the firm muscles of his chest and arms glowing in the soft light. His cheekbones even more defined and his eyes even more mesmerizing.

Mycroft was so glad for the darkness, where the contrast between their bodies would not be so obvious.

He started to unbutton his own shirt, and his heart almost stopped when Sherlock moved forward and gently pushed his hands away, and slipped the buttons out one by one and peeled the shirt off of him.

.

.

Sherlock looked at him in the glow of the night lamp and remembered other times when he had met him in the dark.

When he had been at doss houses and under abandoned bridges and on street corners, drugged out and in pain. Out of the miserable stinking darkness Mycroft would always turn up, like a knight in shining armour. He would sit with him and hold his hand or he would pick him up and take him to the hospital.

Sherlock realized with a start that the first time Mycroft had rescued him, he had been 18 which meant that his big brother had been the age he himself was right now. He had seemed so old to him then…..and so mature and wise…..but he had only been the age he was now! He had been forced to look after Sherlock and be responsible and be there for him …….instead of being free to make his own mistakes and enjoy his own life.

And now here he was again, looking after him, agreeing to this crazy wish, being there for him. Sherlock had asked him, _his own brother_ , to have sex with him and despite all the possible moral and legal taboos, he had agreed.

As a ‘containment’ perhaps…. but he had agreed!!

He always wanted to protect Sherlock. Keep him safe. _Whatever it takes_ he had said.

And what did Sherlock do for him in return? Mock his weight. Speak scathingly of his diet. Take him for granted. Push his limits. Make insane demands.

Sherlock ran a fingertip slowly down from Mycroft’s neck over his chest, down his stomach, stopping at his waistband and hooked his finger in.

He wondered if Mycroft could interpret that as a ‘sorry for all the troubles, brother mine.’

.

.

Mycroft was watching Sherlock as he ran his finger down his body and could see that some internal conversation seemed to be taking place inside Sherlock’s brain.

His expression seemed regretful.

_Perhaps he was realizing that he didn’t want to do this after all. Perhaps, not surprisingly, he found Mycroft’s body repulsive. Maybe he wanted to leave._

Mycroft was prepared for that outcome of course and wondered if he should ask Sherlock directly, in case he was feeling awkward about saying it.

Just then, to his immense surprise, Sherlock bent down at the waist, and kissed him on his stomach.

.

.

Mycroft was stunned. _Had he known that of all the parts of his body this was the one that made him the most self-conscious??_

In fact he had been steeling himself to expect some mocking comment from Sherlock when he saw him without his shirt. It was why he had asked him to come over that same day itself, before he could over- think and worry and refuse him.

But this gesture was so unexpected and so ………just so very _tender_ and _intimate_ that Mycroft felt tears threatening behind his eyelids. He shut his eyes.

.

.

Sherlock stood up straight again, his lips electrified with the feel of Mycroft’s skin under them and his senses swimming in his smell…….and for a fleeting second, just before Mycroft shut his eyes, he saw him.

Really saw him. As a person.

As _another_ person.

Someone who cared for him. Always. Who had rescued him and looked after him and had been there for him. Always. Who worked a hard and sometimes dangerous and difficult job. But who always made time for him. Always. Who had made the effort today to cook his most favourite dish _in the world_.  

Who had given in to this absurd and obviously _insane_ wish of his to have sex with him.

Was here _anything_ Mycroft would not do for him?

He had a feeling that he would even die for him. Without a moment’s hesitation.

And he looked at this man standing in front of him, giving of himself, endlessly, forever……..this man who was his brother and his best friend……. his guiding light and his refuge and his sanctuary ……..and………his everything really ……..and in that instant Sherlock did something utterly unexpected.

Completely unanticipated.

Amazingly unpredictable.

Incredibly and breathtakingly impossible.

.

.

He fell in love.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Sherlock, it is not the fall that kills you...it is the landing.

Time seemed to slow down and everything went quiet around him as Sherlock felt himself fall.

He saw the meaning of life in the blink of an eye and discovered the purpose of his existence. He understood why people wrote poetry and sang songs and painted magnificent murals.

This was love. This was worship of the highest kind.

.

.

Sherlock wondered if this could be considered love at first sight.

He was seeing Mycroft, really seeing Mycroft today for the first time.

He thought of the line he had traced down Mycroft’s chest with his finger and wondered if he could open him up there and enter him and live inside him forever.

With a wry smile he thought that if he asked Mycroft he may even say yes.

This _idiot_ brother of his with no sense of self- preservation and no boundaries when it came to Sherlock, would probably say yes.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought-----the beautiful and sublime thought of living inside Mycroft. Next to his heart.

Or even better-- Inside his heart. Woven into his every heartbeat.

For eternity.

Surely they had been born in the same family so they could find each other easily. Surely they were always meant to be together. In every iteration of every known Universe.

Soulmates.

.

.

Just then Mycroft opened his eyes and the vulnerability inside them had gone. He had willed it away. It had been difficult but he had done it.

It would never do to let Sherlock know he was in love with him. It would probably scare him away instantly. He needed to keep this as scientific as possible. For both of them.

It was just ‘gathering data.’

Ok, so he had cheated a little by cooking Sherlock’s favourite dish.

But there had been a logical reason.

It was so that even if Sherlock was repelled by the sight of Mycroft’s body _(and surely he would be!)_ and even if the entire physical experience was un-satisfactory _(and who could predict that it would be otherwise?!)_ he would take away at least some pleasant memory of that evening.

If this first time was also to be the last time, maybe many years later Sherlock would at least remember that the dinner had not been bad.

_Honestly, how could he not be disgusted by Mycroft’s body?!!_

Surely Sherlock must have seen himself in the mirror at least once?! He must have seen those flat planes and toned limbs and his face. That face which the Renaissance painters would have fought to immortalize in their paintings.

Of course he would look upon Mycroft and see only acres of insipid pale skin. Yes, he did have well defined muscles from all the legwork he was still obliged to do, but the increasing hours at his desk had given him a soft belly.

_And his face? Surely Sherlock, with his refined sense of aesthetics would find it far from pleasing._

_No wonder he had closed his eyes. It was fine. They could do this._

.

.

_What did Mycroft really think of him…._ Sherlock wondered, as he opened his eyes and saw Mycroft look at him.

_Would he always see him as the immature little brother whose whims he had to entertain? Did he look after him only because he had promised Mummy? What if Mummy died? Would he still do anything for him? Or would he be happy to be freed from this troublesome burden?_

‘Containment’ he had called this agreement. No kissing on the lips. No emotional complications.

Sherlock’s expression turned a little hard at the thought.

No. It would never do to let him know that he had fallen in love with him.

It was against the rules.

Not just the Rules of Society. He cared two hoots for that.

It was against the Rules of Mycroft.

And suddenly, that meant all the world to him.

.

.

So they stood there, looking at each other, hands around each other’s waists now.

Facing each other’s Transport.

Both of them lifelong experts at hiding from emotions, shunning sentiment and finding it so much easier to work at the highest intellectual planes than the basest physical ones.

There was a fragile silence in the bedroom, broken only by the sound of their breathing……. and for a fleeting second Mycroft regretted _intensely_ his condition of no kissing on the lips.

But in the very next second he was as intensely grateful that he had done so.

There is no way that his heart would have survived rejection after this if he had also kissed him.

This way he could still remind himself that it was _just an experiment_.

It was sex. Just sex. Not love.

It was merely a physical act. Like a handshake. Not a communion.

Just bodies rubbing against each other so as to trigger the release of certain chemicals which satisfied the pleasure centres of the brain.

No emotions involved. No sentiment. No attachment.

_Let the games begin._

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can be more beautiful than the Garden of Eden and more tempting than an entire orchard of apple trees?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter onwards is going to be rated explicit. Maybe it is over-thinking on my part, since this is already rated mature.....and for those of you who have read my earlier fics, I can assure you it will not AT ALL be really graphic. 
> 
> However, since I have taken the plunge into writing a story that is ‘literally’ mainly about sex * facepalms* I am pushing my comfort zone and writing about it, in the context of the loving but dysfunctional ‘agreement’ the two idiot geniuses have undertaken. 
> 
> Hope it doesn’t squick you and if it does, then sorry, please feel free to stop reading and check out some other story for now :)
> 
> And of course after that long explanation I must confess that in fact this may not be explicit ‘enough’ at all for some of you hahaha :P

Mycroft helped Sherlock out of his jeans and pants.

He resisted rolling his eyes when Sherlock impatiently flung them to a distant corner of the room.

_Choose your battles wisely_ he told himself. _We are already dancing in the ring of fire._

Sherlock stood before him now, already aroused, naked as the day he was born, more beautiful than the Garden of Eden and more tempting than an entire orchard of apple trees.

“Exquisite!” Mycroft thought and realized that he should have probably added one more condition. It wasn’t just kissing him on the lips but even taking him in his mouth that he was going to have to deny himself. If he tasted him……there would be no second time for them because he would never be able to hide his love and desire and Sherlock would be disgusted by him.

He was grateful once again for the near darkness in the room as he felt his cheeks burn with shame and longing. His head was spinning with lust and when Sherlock reached out for him, he barely managed to deflect his hands.

“Today is about you Sherlock. Don’t worry about me.” He was surprised that he managed to say it in an even tone, given the raging storm brewing inside him.

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue but he simply nodded and let his hands fall back.

_Thank goodness for small mercies_ Mycroft thought to himself.

_WORRY about you?!_ Sherlock was thinking bitterly _. Oh Mycroft!! I am too selfish for that. I WANT you. I want to see you. Every inch of you. I want to touch you and taste you and memorize you and fill myself up with you._

But he did not dare say any of it and just bit his tongue and nodded in agreement. He needed to make sure that this first time would not be the last time. He needed to learn control.

Control.

_After all that was the way to Mycroft’s heart, wasn’t it?_

_._

_._

Mycroft had not dared to let Sherlock touch him. He would not have lasted even a minute. He needed to make sure that Sherlock experienced the pleasure for himself and not be repulsed by the sight of someone else in the throes of a climax. He could not lose control in front of him.

He had known that Sherlock had had no sexual partner so far but he had no idea how he felt about it at all. He knew that Sherlock even hated eating when he was busy solving those murder cases he had taken to working on. Sex would be so much more of a distraction.

The disdain he always showed towards his ‘Transport’ made Mycroft wonder if he would see an orgasm as the ultimate betrayal or finally something he could enjoy about his body.

_Who knew what Sherlock would think…_ he mused, as he ran his fingers lightly down that beautiful neck and over his chest, teasing his nipples, watching the skin over his abdomen flutter as he scratched it lightly, moving down slowly.

He held him closer and caressed his back, moving down till he reached his hip bone and then circled back to the front.

_Easy does it. Slow and easy._

He traced his biceps and ran his finger down his forearm and tangled their fingers together.

“Let’s have you lying down for this.” he murmured as he saw Sherlock’s pupils dilate and eyes start to glaze over. He helped him onto the bed and adjusted the pillows so he was comfortable.

Mycroft lay down next to him, and shifted his left arm under his head, half cuddling him. (Though that is NOT a word he wanted to use. No. This was just an experiment in sex. Not intimacy. It was a hold. That is all.)

Then he dipped the fingers of his right hand in the lubricant jar and used them to show Sherlock exactly how enjoyable it could be to have an orgasm with someone else involved. He got Sherlock close, very close……..so close…..almost there…..and then he stopped.

Mycroft was quite sure that his own brain was going to melt just listening to the sounds Sherlock was making. _Those moans should be illegal_ he thought. _How in heaven’s name was he going to survive??!_

By the time he had teased him to the edge a third time Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please…….. Mycroft” he whispered, neck thrown back and eyes closed. “Please!”

And Mycroft could never deny him anything, ever, could he?

.

.

Sherlock seemed to have passed out from the experience and Mycroft cleaned him up and draped the sheet over him and sat there next to him, pensively smoking………… one cigarette, then a second and then a third.

Worried. Unsure if this reaction was a good sign or bad.

_Would Sherlock want to do this again or would he find it hateful to relinquish so much control to Mycroft? He hated him for his surveillance for the drugs already. Would he want to find someone else who could do this for him?_

_Someone he didn’t resent and feel angry with all the time?_

He wanted to reach out and touch him as he lay there, blissed out, mouth fallen open, eyelids heavy and closed. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair and kiss him and hold him close, so close. And never let go…..

If this time was also to be the last time, he wanted to memorize every single detail. From the delicate shell of his ears to the agonizingly lyrical curve of his back, ending in the pert, utterly edible arse.

_Ugh what a common way to describe this_ Mycroft thought to himself _. Surely it needed a better word. Maybe if he looked at it carefully, from all angles, some better word would present itself. After all he knew 26 languages…… _

He ran through the list in his head, in alphabetical order, of course, as he gazed upon the to- be- named part, which lay there on his bed, just a few inches away, the sheet having slipped off, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

Kissing it wasn’t against the rules he realized…….……but as he bent down to touch it with his lips he became aware that this was dangerous territory and he might lose control so he withdrew himself. In fact he decided to move off the bed altogether and sit far away as he attempted to find the right word _._

_Mukhara in Arabic…nah…not quite the right feel_

_Boude in Afrikaans….hmm…not so bad…Boude. That could work._

_Hintern in German…..no definitely not…..he wanted to squeeze it, not salute it._

_Rumpe in Norwegian…not really. Too much of a dairy farm vibe to it._

_Culito in Spanish…. .It could be considered vulgar under certain conditions but honestly, who was ever going to hear him say it?! He liked the sound of the word. He rolled it around on his tongue. Culito. A pert cute little arse. Yes that was it! This was a culito._

It had a name.

He wanted to bite it.

.

.

Luckily (or tragically?! He could never decide….) Sherlock stirred just then and seemed to be finally emerging from his hibernation.

Mycroft was tremendously relieved when, ten minutes later, leaning back against the pillows on the large and comfortable bed, still slightly dazed but coherent, Sherlock had declared that this had been a ‘rather interesting experience, all told’, but he needed more data sets.

Just for evidence. Of course.

And he reminded Mycroft that he had said they couldn’t possibly do everything the first time around and of course he needed to know what else was there to do. Surely there was much more.

Data sets. Nothing else.

Mycroft had hummed and nodded in agreement and after a short pause had indicated that Sherlock could stay the night if he wanted to. It probably wasn’t safe to go home right away given that one’s reaction time tended to slow down a little after sex, he suggested.

Again, just scientific evidence.

So Sherlock had stayed and Mycroft had gone off to take a shower and then gone down to his office room to work.

By the time he came back up, Sherlock was fast asleep again.

.

.

He must have woken up at some odd hour before dawn and left because when Mycroft woke up in the morning and remembered, he turned to the other side of the bed. He saw that it was empty and felt more bereft than he could have imagined.

Then he consoled himself. It was better this way.

No awkward morning- after conversations. No meaningless good- byes.

_Yes, Sherlock had said last night that he may want more, but who knew what Sherlock ever really wanted? Surely something else would distract him before the week was out._

Mycroft held the pillow Sherlock had slept on and inhaled deeply.

_Would it have been better to have never had this encounter or was it better to have had at least this much?_

He shook his head in despair.

He could take precise and calculated decisions on war and peace and concerns of global and deadly importance…… but when it came to Sherlock he could really never decide what to wish for….

Never had been able to.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah the first day of first love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because all of you are SO wonderful and the muse is being obliging AND it is the weekend--here are two more chapters today !!

Sherlock let himself into 221B at 4 am.

He went into the flat and looked around. Everything seemed different. Brighter and richer and more real somehow. It was as though a veil had been lifted, a mist had melted away and he was the seeing the world in its true light for the first time in his life.

He was in love!! He felt like twirling. He felt like jumping on the sofa. He could understand what a firecracker felt like as it exploded and sparkled in many many colours in the sky.

This was love!!! This was LOVE!

He didn’t know what to do with himself. In a frenzy of activity he took out the yellow paint canister and sprayed a smiley on the wallpaper. He climbed on the chair and put his headphones on the bison skull.

He may have hugged the cushions and he may have looked at himself in the mirror and grinned at his reflection.

He was in LOVE!!! And he wanted the world to know it…….and at that thought he sobered down rapidly.

He could never tell anyone. He could not even tell the man he loved.

Never.

Mycroft must NEVER find out.

He slumped down on the floor and sat in a deep funk for a very long time. Dark morbid thoughts swirled around his brain like a toxic fog.

Then he got up, picked up his violin and played the saddest and most melancholy tunes for so long that he finally stopped when he realized that his fingertips had started to bleed.

Someone was entering the flat.

“Hoohoo!!”

_Oh it was the landlady…or housekeeper…or whoever._

“Shoo!!” he said. “Go away.”

“Now dear, really! Where are your manners!” She said, mock offended. “Sounded like you could do with a cup of tea. What was that music you were playing? Almost made me cry!”

 _Tea!_ He perked up. _And cookies!_

 _Hmmm…_ he thought as he wolfed down four of them. _This lady seemed nice._

Just then his phone rang and it was someone who had been held for a murder charge. Which he claimed he was innocent of.

 _Wonderful!! Could this day get any better?!_ He kissed an astonished Mrs. Hudson on her cheek, wore his coat and ran down the stairs.

“Oh take out the trash!!” He yelled out to her as he almost ran out of the building. " There is a mangled heart in it. Laterzzz!"

.

.

He came back late in the evening, having solved the case and managed to get the man out of jail. That grey haired Detective Inspector at the Yard had been less of an idiot than the others. He seemed to have understood at least 40% of Sherlock’s deductions after he had explained them. Which was a lot more than most people seemed capable of.

Mycroft was right to call them all goldfish.

Mycroft.

He felt a helpless smile light up his face as he said that name.

Mycroft. His Mycroft.

The man he was in love with.

Beautiful Mycroft. Brilliant Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft.

He closed his eyes and lay down on the sofa. He had had no time to organize his Mind Palace since last evening so now he concentrated on sorting it all out. The smell, the words, the way he had looked, in his pale blue shirt which brought out the colour of his eyes….how had he never noticed how divine his eyes were?? He could swim in those eyes. He could drown in those eyes.

And his muscular arms and that lovely freckled skin.

Oh and his soft belly. He was never going to tease him about his diet now. He LOVED that soft belly. He wanted to kiss it and hold it and sleep with his head pillowed on it and he wanted to bite it …...and he spent a wonderful fifteen minutes imagining all the delicious things he could do with that soft belly.

Then with a sigh he turned to other matters.

The way Mycroft had touched him and how he had held him. And then those fingers and the thrill it had given him. He had been shocked to hear his own voice moaning like that. So wanton. So depraved. And then the climax had made him see stars.

Of course he had done it for himself on a few occasions in the past. During those horrid puberty years when he couldn’t make it go away without touching it and in recent years maybe once or twice when he had been bored out of his skull.

But nothing, absolutely nothing had ever given him the height of pleasure he had experienced last evening. He had been unable to think or stay conscious after that.

He had been blissed out and the most perfect silence had swept over his brain. It was not the silence of absence that the 7% solution gave him. Like being in outer space where no one can hear you scream.

No. This was far far better. It was the silence of contentment. Like …..mmmm… _like a cat sleeping curled up in the sun?_ his brain offered as an analogy.

 _Yes. That worked!_ he thought with a silly smile.

His brain felt like a cat sleeping curled up in the sun. Purring contentedly. 

His brain had been washed over with a tsunami of hormones.

Oxtytocin. Dopamine.

He wondered why these two chemicals weren’t mass manufactured and then sprayed on everyone from the air. Then they could all dance in the streets in wild abandon.

He opened his eyes at the thought. Dance. Maybe he could persuade Mycroft to dance with him. He could hold him close and breathe him in and oh he loved to dance. In fact it was Mycroft who had taught him the waltz.

_Oh he had an idea!_

He would compose a waltz and THEN they could dance to it. It would be a love letter in music. And Mycroft may suspect, because he was the smart one, but it wasn’t really breaking any of his rules was it?? Stupid rules he thought and frowned at the wallpaper.

He was going to shoot some holes into that wall one day. Stupid wall.

He spent the next couple of hours in a daydream haze but late at night he got a call from that D.I at Scotland Yard. Something Lestrade. A very odd murder case. Would he come?

 _Yes of course he would!_ And so he went and then spent the next 48 hours looking for clues, putting together the pattern and finally leading them to the killer.

He came back home at 6 am on a euphoric high. Mycroft would be so proud of his deductions, he thought and he slept for the next ten hours, dreaming of Mycroft and his soft belly.

When he woke up he found that someone had kept a wonderful smelling pot of pasta for him on the dining table. There was note saying ‘Thank you’ signed by Angelo.

And what was that? A bowl of Tiramisu. Tiramisu!

It was Mycroft’s favourite!

_It had been three entire days since that evening._

_He could ask for one more data set now surely?_

So he quickly composed a few texts and just as quickly he deleted them.

_It would not do to sound too needy. Or in any way emotional. And definitely not soppy._

He finally settled on one word and sent the text.

He ate the pasta while waiting for the reply.

One minute. Two. Five minutes.

He had just finished eating when the phone pinged.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft still can't decide whether it was good decision or not...but of course he cannot really get himself to say no.

Three days had passed since that evening and Mycroft was in a meeting when he picked up his vibrating phone to find a text from Sherlock.

_ {Tonight? SH} _

He had looked at the message for a very long time, a riot of thoughts making it difficult to breathe.

_Sherlock really wanted to do this again? It wasn’t one of his usual whims and fancies, here today, gone tomorrow._

He squashed the feeling of delight bubbling up inside his chest.

This was not going to last. It never lasted.

He laughed bitterly. _Poor Sherlock_.

He had thought that those two conditions were meant to discipline _him_ when the truth was that they were meant to protect Mycroft.

Sherlock had simply no idea of the depth of feelings Mycroft had for him. In fact he had been in love with his younger brother for so long and so hopelessly that when Sherlock raised the topic of incest Mycroft had been alarmed to realize that he hadn’t even thought of the legal implications of what they were about to do. Just the idea that he was going to have sex with Sherlock and that too with his whole-hearted consent, and even desire, had been too much for him to cope with.

Fate had never given him something he wished for without taking away something he hadn’t even known he would have to sacrifice. Which is why he had never allowed himself to wish for this. He had no idea what price he may be called upon to pay and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to do so.

This dream had thus remained buried on the dark side of the Moon in his Mind Galaxy, never to be seen and certainly never to be visited.

Until that day. When Sherlock himself had plucked it out of orbit and dropped it in his lap.

It was as though his Mind Galaxy had come alive for the first time in its existence. It hummed and pulsated and throbbed and supernovas were exploding. Many Suns were born and died and in the instant, even before Sherlock asked, Mycroft knew his answer would be Yes.

Always YES.

No matter what the consequences.

.

.

It had been like a miracle when Sherlock had asked him to have sex.

He had seen it coming as soon as he saw the light shift inside Sherlock’s eyes when he had leaned in on him that day at Baker Street, almost touching his face, and he had taken that deep breath.

Desire and terror had swirled through Mycroft in the few minutes that his brother had gone to look out of the window.

_Did he want Sherlock to ask or did he want him to resist?_

_Be careful what you wish for_ he reminded himself……and he genuinely did not know what he would choose.

Then Sherlock had taken a decision. And he had asked. Specifically asked.

To have sex. With him.

Mycroft hoped that he had managed to sound restrained and even a bit bored. The best way to turn Sherlock off was if he thought Mycroft might enjoy it. So he had made it sound as though it was a favour, a distasteful fulfilment of duty. An obligation.

Conditional. Time bound. Utilitarian.

And he had to make sure that Sherlock remembered, always, that it was an experiment. Gathering of data sets. Obtaining evidence.

He would never want Sherlock to feel trapped and wonder if they were in a relationship as a result of the sex. He wanted Sherlock to know that he was free.

To stop any time he wanted.

To leave.

To find someone else…..

Every one of those thoughts tore at his heart, the one he kept hidden so well from the entire world but which beat only for Sherlock.

Always had.

For his beautiful, incandescent, beloved Sherlock.

Who was perfection itself…..from the top of his curly head all the way down to his delicate toes. Whose razor sharp mind was a mirror to his own genius abilities. Whose sparkling brilliance made him feel just a little less lonely in this world full of goldfish.

Who could be in his bed tonight……..

.

.

 

As Mycroft looked at the message and the avalanche of desires it unleashed, he wished for the millionth time that he had _never_ agreed to this absurd arrangement.

Because someday it was going to come to an end…it must…… _and then how was he expected to carry on?!!_

But he was swept over with a tide of gratitude at whatever forces governed the Universe and had granted him at least that one time.

That one hour when he had had permission to touch that beloved body, to hold it, to give it pleasure. To worship it. To watch it arch in ecstasy. To see those eyes cloud over with desire and lust. To see the flush creep up to those smooth cheeks and to see those lips tremble with want.

_Please…._ those lips had said. _Please. Mycroft!_

If his life had ended that very instant he would have gone happily, because this was heaven, here, already in his arms.

_Could it possibly be true that he was going to be granted one more such chance?_

_._

_._

He sent a text.

{Meeting going on till late but can manage for 9 pm? MH}

The reply came 3 seconds later.

_ {Yes. Don’t bother with dinner for me.SH} _

Mycroft felt his heart trip.

Sherlock was coming only for sex. He didn’t really want to linger and chat and have any interest in Mycroft’s company.

But it was ok. It could be worse.

It could be so much worse.  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if food be the music of love....?
> 
> ( If music be the food of love, play on. The first line of the play Twelfth Night , by William Shakespeare.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words for how wonderful all of you are with your delightful and insightful comments! Your comments have made my weekend and are super encouraging for my muse too <3  
> A BIG thank you to Shadow_Yanice, Purrfectlmt, SammySatine. Elsa9, saftaf and my own dear eloquated and LadyGlinda
> 
> Warning for this chapter-- this is when you should sit with a box of tissues, maybe even a large terry towel cos that is more absorbent. Perhaps a plush and a hot chocolate too.  
> Hearts WILL be broken.  
> Mine was shredded in the writing of this and no guarantees for yours while reading….

_Damn and blast the Party Whip who had insinuated himself into the conversation he was having with the Prime Minister and had delayed him by an entire 45 minutes._

_ Forty-five _ _minutes!! Surely Sherlock wasn’t going to wait that long……he never had the patience._

_Oh well…..it had been too good to be true._ Mycroft thought with a sigh.

_He didn’t deserve such happiness anyway._

It was in this gloomy mood that he unlocked his front door, entered his house and closed the door behind him.  As he shrugged his coat off he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. He gripped his umbrella again and was about to press the security alarm when Sherlock padded out of the kitchen, holding a bowl and a spoon.

“Hello Mycroft.” He said. “I was wondering if you had changed your mind.”

Mycroft almost cried in relief, his pulse rate having shot up to alarming levels.

_He had come!! Sherlock had come. AND he had waited._

“Sorry Sherlock. I got delayed by ….an idiot. A nincompoop who loves the sound of his own voice.” Mycroft shook his head. “But never mind all that. I have had a long day. Sorry—but would you mind waiting another ten minutes? I have to take a quick shower.”

Sherlock blinked, not trusting himself to speak as the image of Mycroft taking a shower made him feel very wobbly all of a sudden. He wanted to be in the shower with him. He wanted to soap him and wash him and take care of him….he must be so tired…..

“Huh, what?” he said. Mycroft was saying something to him.

“Sherlock?! Are you ok? What is that in your hand? You said no dinner so I didn’t….but if you are hungry I can make you a sandwich……”

“No Mycroft. I said no dinner because I already ate something today. A man I helped get off a murder charge sent me ridiculous amounts of pasta. Too much food makes me slow. And here.” He said, offering Mycroft the bowl. “I got this for you.”

Mycroft looked at it in wonder.

_Sherlock had got food for him!_ _He hadn’t rejected dinner because he didn’t want to spend time with him outside of sex._

_ He had got food for him _ _._

He looked at the bowl. It was Tiramisu. Not store bought. He felt his mouth water at the thought. He looked up at Sherlock.

_Was he teasing him? Was he going to laugh at him for wanting to eat this?_

Sherlock looked at him, deducing what he was thinking and praying to the universe that Mycroft could not deduce what was going on inside his own mind.

“You always liked Tiramisu didn’t you? I thought….” And he was suddenly awkward. ( _Was this against the rules?? Surely not…?! This was not emotions was it??) _

“Since you made me my favourite dish the last time I thought that I would….”and he trailed off.

“Thank you.” Mycroft said simply. “I am …touched by your thoughtfulness Sherlock. But would you mind if I ate it later?”

Sherlock nodded and went back to the kitchen to keep it in the fridge.

.

.

As Mycroft went upstairs to shower Sherlock sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands.

_How was he going to manage this?!!_

As soon as Mycroft had come home all he wanted to do was hold him and kiss him. Push him against the wall and just kiss him breathless. And the Tiramisu……….he wanted to feed him and then taste it on him. On his lips, inside his mouth……….maybe even smear it on his chest and lick it off.

He wanted to mark him. Bite him. Mess him up.

He wanted to tell the whole world _Stay away!_ _He is MINE! Only mine…_

_What the hell was happening to him?!! _

He HAD to control himself or Mycroft would end this even before they had a second time together.

.

.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Mycroft was taking a shower and pretending that the wetness on his face was entirely from the hot water.

Sherlock had got him _food_.

_Sherlock_ had got him food.

_Did Sherlock even know what he was doing??!_

One got food for one’s lover. Not for a scientific- sexual- encounter- experiment.

Thank goodness he had eaten a sandwich on the way home and would be able to resist that Tiramisu …….at least until Sherlock left.

_And Sherlock had waited for him! The most impatient man he knew…. had waited for him._

It was for sex though. Don’t forget. He reminded himself.

Not for love.

And he finally allowed himself to sob and he leaned against the shower stall and cried till he couldn’t cry any more.

Then he wiped himself dry, including every tear. He wore his Ice Man mask and stepped out of the bedroom to call out to Sherlock. 

.

.

That night Sherlock didn’t stay. He had some experiment running that needed to be supervised he said.

Mycroft was glad in a way because their second time together had made him ridiculously optimistic that there may be more such occasions. Not only had Sherlock not seemed repulsed, he had in fact been very responsive. Extremely so.

Since Mycroft had just stepped out of the shower he had worn only his bathrobe. Didn’t seem much point in wearing clothes. Sherlock had come into the bedroom and looked at him with a smile that seemed partly shy, partly hopeful.

Mycroft had barely managed to keep his Ice Man mask from melting as his heart did flip-flops on seeing that smile.

Then Sherlock had come closer and opened his bathrobe and ……he had bent down to kiss him on the stomach….again……….and then moved up, kissing him all the way till he reached his jaw. He had taken a deep breath at the curve of his neck and Mycroft felt as though every molecule of air had been sucked away from the room.

He wanted to kiss Sherlock so badly in that moment that he thought he would pass out from the sheer effort of stopping himself. He had a sudden vision of the two of them , lips locked to each other’s, spiralling through inky black space……….into eternity.

_Stop it!_ He told himself. _This is a sexual encounter. We will be having sex. Not making love. Focus._

And so he did. Focus.

Once again Sherlock reached out to touch him and he stopped him.

“Not today.” he said and he led Sherlock to the bed.

This time he held him again and caressed him. This time he tasted those nipples and teased them with his tongue till he couldn’t bear to listen to the moans. He himself had become so hard he thought he was going to explode. But he couldn’t do anything about it. Not now.

This time he allowed himself to lick that culito and maybe nibble on it gently, not leaving any marks.

This time he prepared Sherlock for his fingers. With lots of lube.

First one finger. Then two.

For a minute Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was going to die from the euphoria of knowing that he was the first one to do this for Sherlock or from the delight of seeing the blissed out expression on Sherlock’s face as he moved his fingers gently, in and out and then bent them at the right angle and watched Sherlock go breathless and then ecstatic and fall apart under him, moaning his name.

_Please Mycroft….Please._

Not even a chorus of angels could have brought Mycroft more joy than these words.

Afterwards, Mycroft wiped him down tenderly, not looking at his face, never at his face, because if he did then there was no force on this planet that would keep him from kissing him. Consuming him. Merging with him till no one could tell them apart.

He wiped him down with his eyes averted and wrapped him in the blanket instead of his own arms.

He wanted so badly to hold him and never let him go.

He went to the shower to take care of his own needs.

 It disgusted him. This carnal desire. These lustful ….these overwhelmingly lustful thoughts that swept over him.

He had agreed to this ‘experiment’ more in the way of a ‘sexual assistant’ if you will. The way trained assistants helped out people with disabilities, since many of them were unlikely to have intimate relationships or needed help with them anyway.

Not that he thought of Sherlock as having any disability. Any more than he had any.

Unless one counted the crippling inability to show vulnerability and the blind need for protecting his younger brother at all costs. Or maybe the fact that he was deaf to his own heart, beating in his chest, shouting out his love.

No. He had never wanted to, never planned to, never even _expected_ to get anything out of this for himself, besides the absolutely divine privilege of just having Sherlock in his arms, of being the one to give him the pleasure he sought.

Now his own useless body was betraying him.

He had had sex before of course. Often enough. With women and men. Most of these were encounters within professional requirements. There was a reason the French called an orgasm ‘the little death’. More secrets were lost and found in the bedroom than anywhere else.

Some of his encounters had also been personally sought. Sometimes by him, sometimes by the other person. They had been tolerable. They had been sufficient for the need of that hour so to speak. But it had been just a physical release with a chemical aftermath.

Not this tide of emotional and even, dare he say, almost _spiritual_ rapture that threatened to drown him every time he touched Sherlock.

Now all he had to do was think of him and he would be aroused. He managed to suppress such thoughts at work, but now, with him lying down in his bedroom, on his bed……he couldn’t.

He would die if he didn’t give in.

So he made his way to the shower to find his own release and then he came back and he sat, far away, at his desk in the bedroom and smoked a cigarette to give his hands and mouth something else to do as he fought a battle inside himself.

_How long could he resist?? And what was he going to do once this experiment came to an end? When there would no longer be any text from Sherlock, asking ‘tonight?’……..what would he do then?!!_

He felt himself shudder at the thought. 

Fifteen long minutes later Sherlock got up, he smiled even before he opened his eyes and then turned to the other side of the bed. It was empty. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow to see Mycroft sitting far away at his desk, smoking and reading some document.

The way his stomach dropped at the sight of Mycroft having retreated to possibly the furthest corner of the bedroom almost made him slightly nauseous.

He got off the bed, washed his face and said that he was going back to Baker Street. He had an experiment to complete.

“Should I call you a taxi?” Mycroft asked, casually, hiding the black hole that had opened up at the thought that Sherlock didn’t even want to sleep next to him. _Why would he?_

“No, I will manage.” Sherlock replied. “It’s not even midnight yet.”

He was almost outside the bedroom door when he turned back and mumbled “Oh and don’t forget to eat the Tiramisu.”

And then he was gone.

.

.

As much as Mycroft hated seeing him leave, he was also relieved to see him go because he was _so close_ to breaking his own rules.

He wanted to kiss Sherlock so badly……….he wanted to kiss him on those lips……on those soft, plump juicy lips……..for hours and hours and never let go ……………and he wanted to tell him he loved him ……………he loved him _so much_ that his heart was going to burst…………and he couldn’t do either of those things …….and it was killing him to resist.

As soon as the front door closed, Mycroft went down to the kitchen and sat there and held the bowl of Tiramisu in both hands and cried his heart out.

.

.

Sherlock stood outside the closed front door, not sure if his knees would hold up even till he found a taxi. Praying that he would find a taxi fast enough to prevent him from picking the lock and going back in and ………he didn’t even know what exactly he wanted at this point because his brain seemed to be made of mush.

Images, sounds, smells all mixed up.

He wanted to inject Mycroft inside his veins. He wanted to scoop the Tiramisu with his bare hands and feed Mycroft and watch him lick every finger. He wanted to push Mycroft against the wall of his shower stall and kiss him as the hot water cascaded over both of them. Kiss him and kiss him until they both melted and flowed away somewhere, just fused molecules……..inseparable. Into the Thames……..into the North Sea…….into the Arctic Circle.

“Taxi!!” He yelled. He had never been so grateful for his ability to find a taxi, as he shivered with desire and desperation the entire (seemingly endless) ride and finally reached 221B.

He wondered what his landlady would say if he asked her to lock him in so he couldn’t leave. Not today. Not ever. Because he wasn’t sure how long he could control himself and then Mycroft was going to end this and he wasn’t sure he could live with that either.

But Mycroft was helping him only because he had asked. He didn’t want to participate actively. Even today he had pushed his hand away.

He curled up on his sofa and did something he hadn’t done in over a decade. In fact probably not since the night Mycroft had left for college.

He cried himself to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trysts. Encounters. Data sets. Assignations. Experiments. Yeah. Geniuses sure know how to call it like it is. SIgh.

Mycroft’s travel and working hours meant that these ‘trysts’ would always of an uneven and un-predictable frequency and sometimes would have to be planned at a very short notice.

There were times during the infernal circles of Hell that were the Cabinet Meetings when he would find himself wishing he could reach home early so that Sherlock could come over if he wanted to.

But Mycroft never asked Sherlock over. He would only inform him when he was free.

After that first time Sherlock had not asked him either. But in the last month, Mycroft had informed him five times and Sherlock had come over every single time.

Every single time.

Whether it was a six hours’ notice (which was rare) or even a one hour notice (which was more likely).

 Mycroft had tried not to read too much into it. These were early days. Soon Sherlock’s curiosity would be satisfied. One day something else would come along.

Maybe someone else would come along.

That grey haired Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard did seem rather fond of Sherlock. Mycroft had seen those CCTV feeds and noticed the slow warm smile he often gave to Sherlock, as though they shared some inside joke. It killed him every single time he saw it. Of course, he had never seen Sherlock return the smile (and he had looked for it, he had). But with Sherlock just the fact that he continued to associate with this man was an enormous compliment. An attachment of a kind.

D.I. Gregory Lestrade was married but that was obviously not going to last. His wife had had an affair with her yoga teacher and was currently sleeping with another teacher at the school where she taught. He had had a male partner in his university days and he would be good for Sherlock. Really good for him. He was calm, obviously tolerant of his shenanigans, mature and far more intelligent than the usual goldfish. He was good looking too. Handsome even. Sherlock could be with him openly.

He could be happy.

Mycroft would feel a constriction in his chest at the images he conjured up of those two sitting at Scotland Yard, sipping coffee, their knees touching under the table. Or of them walking down the Bank on a Sunday evening, hand in hand, or lying down in bed on a holiday, reading books together..………and then he would go into negotiations wanting to rip out the organs of the idiots he was forced to work with every day.

But instead he would wear his mental coat- of- armour and when he walked in no one would imagine that he was anything other than the legendary Ice Man, consummate diplomat, brilliant genius, doing everything he could for Queen and country.

.

.

After his travels, as soon as he landed at the airport, his fingers would itch to message Sherlock.

He would fight himself for at least a day before he gave in. Despising himself for his pathetic craving. He needed him. Had wanted him.

Ever since he laid eyes on him at the station that fateful day seven years ago, stepping out of the carriage like Adonis himself. Like Michelangelo’s David.

_But oh, so much more beautiful._

Not cold marble but warm flesh. Firm muscles and strong bones. A beating heart. Pumping blood. Through veins and arteries.

That day Mycroft had realized how mesmerizing the human body was. Why generations of artists had worshipped the human form the way he now wanted to worship Sherlock’s.

That face, those eyes, that half smile he had given him, as he saw him from across the train station and recognized him. The sun’s rays making his face glow like an angel.

Mycroft had wished that he was a poet, or an artist. He didn’t know how to articulate these feelings and eventually settled on the word that is so oft used as to be made ordinary but would have to do now, for want of any other more suitable.

He was in love with Sherlock. Madly and irrevocably. Utterly and completely.

And he could never, ever let him know.

.

.

So he treated the trysts for what they were supposed to be. Experiments. Encounters. Data sets.

However, after the third time he had insisted that Sherlock stay over later.

He tried not to sound sentimental at all as he told him calmly that it was probably the most sensible thing to do. Practical. Logical.

And of course....he would worry less if he knew that Sherlock was not wandering around at night in that state.

Considering that they had just had the most mind blowing sex and Sherlock was barely awake he had grunted in agreement and gone off to sleep.

Mycroft had looked at him fondly and gone to take a shower and then gone downstairs to his office room.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtship: Defined as the period of development towards an intimate relationship wherein a couple get to know each other and decide if there will be an engagement. It could involve a range of activities from spending time with each other to get to know each other better, building shared memories together, eating together, dancing, sharing things you both love.

At the very second encounter Sherlock had discovered that he craved his brother’s presence in a way that he had not even craved drugs.

Drugs were in fact boring and predictable. Same outcome every single time. A high followed by a low. Mycroft was absolutely nothing like that.

His delectable body also housed a blazing intellect. A sense of humour that Sherlock had forgotten about. Dark and wry. A razor sharp tongue that could slice someone to shreds without breaking a sweat.  

Just that evening, on their third ‘assignation’, Sherlock had listened in (inadvertently) on a call.  He had heard Mycroft taking apart the Ambassador to Korea with such deceptively casual subtlety that Sherlock had been snorting at every other sentence, wondering if the man was going to write a resignation letter or a suicide note after this.

When Mycroft had finally put the phone down and rolled his eyes, Sherlock had found himself gripping the arms of his chair with all his strength to prevent himself from going over and sitting on his lap and kissing that mouth.

That clever, CLEVER, brilliant, powerful, _beautiful_ mouth.

He wanted to push his tongue inside those lips and taste him. He wanted to suck on that slim lower lip slowly, gently, maybe for five hours……and then he wanted to bite him there and he wanted to hear him gasp and moan and he wanted to swallow all those sounds all day and all night and ……he could not even allow himself to imagine any more lest he get tempted beyond reason and so he just sat there, gritting his teeth and chanting inside his head.

_Don’t kiss him. Do NOT kiss him. It’s not allowed. Do not kiss him._

_._

_._

This was the fifth time together and Sherlock had reached a point when even a fully clothed Mycroft was so erotically charged that he could barely stand it.

He couldn’t look at his arms with the long sleeves and cufflinks and garters without recalling the silken feel of the skin, the soft hair on his forearm, with the freckles scattered along them like the Milky Way galaxy.

He could no longer look at Mycroft standing there in his well- cut trousers without sighing at the thought of the slim thighs that wrapped around him in bed and the high curved arch of his foot.

Even the crook of his elbow excited him now. He knew that the skin was always a bit cooler there than anywhere else and he could feel the throb of his pulse when he rested his cheek against it.

Oh the heady enchanting smell of Mycroft’s body… his shower gel, smoke, paper and ink, leather and wood polish….. and himself…just himself.

That neck. Hidden underneath that collar and those hateful ties. Where he wanted to bite him but had been expressly forbidden.

“Sorry Sherlock. I shouldn’t have done it to you either and I am sorry. It won’t happen again. But please don’t mark me in anyway.” Mycroft had told him firmly.

_My entire soul is written over in your name Sherlock but I can’t….I will not be able to bear looking at myself in the mirror with your marks scattered on me and still be able to function, knowing that this is just sex when what I want is love. Please Sherlock. Don’t argue with me on this one._

To his genuine surprise Sherlock had merely nodded and agreed.

_Yes Mycroft. I won’t. Of course I understand. You are a respectable professional walking the corridors of power. Surely you would not want to be seen carrying the filthy marks of something as base as sex._

_I wish you would mark me though. Everywhere. I would walk down the streets showing the marks to the whole world. I am taken! I belong! I am loved!_

_But I am not, am I?_

_You are just indulging my whims. Fulfilling your promise for our ‘arrangement.’_

_._

_._

It was on the fourth ‘encounter’ that he had reached home before Mycroft. He had debated with himself for a while but then he had taken his violin along. He was going to ask Mycroft to dance with him.

Thus it was that Mycroft opened the front door and came in to the sound of a violin playing Brahms. _A waltz! This was Sherlock playing. He had got his violin along?!_

Mycroft wasn’t sure if his stomach dropped or his body was floating but everything was topsy- turvy.   _What did this mean?? Did this mean something?_

Sherlock was standing in the middle of his living room, eyes closed, swaying gently as he played the violin. Mycroft stood there, listening, capturing every graceful movement, every note, every frame of that beloved face.

He needed to remember it all for the day when it would be no more.

Sherlock finished playing, opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft and smiled.

“Shall we dance?” He asked.

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Is that what we do now?”

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalantly, as though he could take it or leave it.

“It’s just data sets. But if you don’t want to….”

Mycroft thought for a second. _Why exactly was he refusing this? Surely if he could control himself lying down next to him with no clothes on, then a fully dressed dance would not pose any trouble would it?_

So he smiled and put out his hand. “Sure! Let’s dance!”

Sherlock couldn’t help the grin on his face and he thought he was going to giggle with delight so he turned away quickly to the music system where he had kept a playlist ready just for this. He was glad that he had already cleared some space in anticipation.

 _Mycroft really found it difficult to say no to him didn’t he?_?!

.

.

Mycroft held out his hand again and Sherlock gave him his.

“Shall I lead?” Mycroft asked him.

“Always.” Sherlock replied and there was something in the look he gave him that made Mycroft’s breath hitch.

_Always. Now that was a word he was wary of. Nothing was for always. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._

With one hand he held Sherlock’s hand and he slipped his other hand around his waist. They moved in perfect coordination, thanks to all those years of practise in the ballroom back home. Mycroft felt as though he was in a dream as Sherlock moved so gracefully against him, as the music ebbed and flowed around them. His head was so close he could feel the soft curls tickle his cheek. He was glad he could dance without thinking because most of his concentration was going in holding Sherlock just the right distance away and not crushing him close and kissing him.

 _Should he dip him at the end?! Or should he not??!_ Oh he had left the decision till too late and soon…too soon…the music came to an end and he felt a pang of regret as Sherlock let go of his hand and stepped away.

But then he saw that Sherlock had a naughty smile on his face. Mycroft looked at him warily, wondering what was going on, when the opening notes of the next piece told him.

“Really Sherlock? The fox trot?” He laughed.

He used to dance this dressed as Lady Bracknell and Sherlock would lead, giggling all the time and eventually giving up, collapsing on the floor in helpless laughter as Mycroft continued to mince in outrage at this behaviour from his dance partner.  

This time also Sherlock led and by the time they were done they were both breathless and laughing. As Mycroft let out a deep breath, and was about to get to the sofa to sit down, Sherlock stood in front of him.

“Just one more. Last one.” He said. “You lead.”

Mycroft heard the opening bars. It was the tango. He shook his head. A tango was simply too intimate. Too personal. Too passionate. These two dances had already changed the mood of today’s experiment. He could not risk any more.

“Sorry Sherlock.” he said. “Some other time?”

“Promise?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking him even as he hid his disappointment. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to agree to even two dances. But still…..the tango would have allowed him to say what he wanted to but without any words. Without breaking any rules.

“Promise.” Mycroft said.

_Promise. If you do ask me again I will not refuse you and then the devil may take care of the consequences._

So he held out his hand and Sherlock took it and they walked up the stairs to the bedroom hand in hand.

As always he had started to undress Sherlock and it was on this, the fourth occasion that Sherlock had stopped him and said “I asked to have sex with you Mycroft. I know you wanted to take it slow because ……well I hadn’t done it before. But I don’t want to only be pleasured _by_ you. I want to also……do this….for you.”

Mycroft was speechless for a second. Then he recovered quickly and said “That isn’t really necessary Sherlock.”

“No, actually it is.” Sherlock said firmly.

“This” and Sherlock waved his hand between them. “If this just about you giving me pleasure, isn’t it as incomplete an experience as me wanting to have sex without any contact? Isn’t the mutual pleasure also a part of the whole experience?”

“Yes…of course but…” Mycroft started to say and Sherlock could actually see the castle walls going up, the hermit crab scuttling into the large scary shell. The curtain coming down.

So he changed tactics right away. He was never going to win in a diplomatic stand- off. But he had an ace up his sleeve.

“Mycie.” he said, softly, using the name he hadn’t used since Mycroft had left for college. “If you don’t let me…..then how will I ever learn……? Do you not want me to because you don’t like me touching you?”

He peeped up at him through his eyelashes, using Mycroft’s two inches additional height to his own advantage. He could actually see Mycroft’s brain stutter.

 _Sherlock, his little brother was asking him for something. The answer would always be yes. And no NO Sherlock!! Not like you touching me?!!_  Mycroft thought he was going to burst out into hysterical laughter. He converted it into a cough. He drank some water. He got himself together. Then he spoke.

“Sure Sherlock, we can do this together. If that is what you want.”

“I do.” Sherlock said. And as soon as he said those words he realized what he really, _really_ wanted suddenly, more than anything else.

He wanted Mycroft to commit to him. To do this and everything else together. To be his own. His very own and only his. He wanted to take vows and he wanted to hear Mycroft say ‘I do’. He stood mesmerized for a second as this new and insane dream unfolded in front of him.

Mycroft had started to undress him so he reached out and unbuttoned Mycroft’s shirt and helped him out of his trousers and pants and they stood there in front of each other.

They were both already aroused.

Mycroft swallowed hard.

 _How had he agreed to this? Why had he said yes??!! He could still stop it. He could_ ………and he lost all coherent thought as Sherlock leaned over and kissed him on the stomach and then reached behind to squeeze him and pull him close.

Mycroft thought he was going to burst into flames when Sherlock murmured into the hollow of his neck. “My, I want to top you and I want you on all fours so teach me how to prepare you properly.”

At that point Mycroft could probably not have told you his own name if asked.

.

.

The next morning, as always, he woke up to an empty side on his bed.

He wondered if it had all been a spectacular multi-dimensional hallucination or dream.

He had never been so painfully aroused nor had such a white hot climax in his entire life. To have Sherlock, his beloved, beloved Sherlock inside him, around him, giving him pleasure……wanting to give him pleasure……he genuinely thought he was going to die at the time.

_And what a glorious way to go it would have been._

He reached out to hold Sherlock’s pillow when his phone rang. Insistent and urgent.

This was Anthea’s caller ID. _Why was she calling him at 6 am?_

_._

_._

He reached office by 6.45 am and was briefed by her about the Russian diplomat and his daughter who had been killed with neurotoxin. They had raised the threat level for him and a few other diplomats working on sensitive matters. He had been on the Russian mission two months ago and although he already had CCTV surveillance on his front door and office room but she was going to have to install one in his bedroom too.

He had no choice but to agree. _What reason could he possibly give?!_

But he had a condition. It would have an access password that he would change daily and would inform Anthea through the encrypted device they used. If for some reason whatever attack happened took her also then the British Government could probably access footage till his bedroom door but not beyond.

So the CCTV was installed that evening itself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/01/world/europe/russia-sergei-skripal-uk-spy-poisoning.html  
> British officials investigating the poisoning of Sergei V. Skripal, a former Russian double agent, believe it is likely that an assassin smeared a nerve agent on the door handle at his home. This operation is seen as so risky and sensitive that it is unlikely to have been undertaken without approval from the Kremlin, according to officials who have been briefed on the early findings of the inquiry.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only two ways to break any rule.   
> Openly, flamboyantly and hang the consequences.   
> Or stealthily in the dark of the night...and hope you don't get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across this image before I even dipped a toe into the ocean of flaming hot temptation that is Holmescest, and this work of art just made it all seem so plausible suddenly that I started with one story about them, then another...and now here I am :D
> 
> https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/683421312177202743/
> 
> It fits with the opening scene of this chapter so I thought I would share it here :)

Today was the sixth time they were to meet and Mycroft had picked him up from Baker Street because it was raining and he was in the area anyway.

Sherlock wrapped his scarf tight, turned up the collar of his coat and was prepared to run the few steps outside on the pavement to the car when he saw the  backdoor of the car open and one slim leg come out, followed by another. An elegant hand wearing black gloves held out an umbrella and opened it and Mycroft stepped out, neat as a pin, his eyes softening as he caught sight of Sherlock waiting under the Speedy’s awning.

He walked down to him and tilted the umbrella minutely to indicate that Sherlock should come in there, out of the rain. Sherlock did and for the few seconds that it took them both to walk back to the car, he lived his dream.

All other sounds and lights were muted by the rain and here he was, under Mycroft’s umbrella, a cosy dry bubble inside which were only the two of them. It was cold and he shuddered despite all his layers and Mycroft put his free arm around his shoulder and pulled him in closer.

“Can’t have you catching a cold!” He said.

He let Sherlock in and after he slid to the other side he stepped in too. He folded the umbrella, shook it outside the door and then kept it in a special waterproof container on the floor of the car, closed the door and tapped on the partition to indicate to the driver that they could go.

“You alright?” He asked Sherlock, while busy getting something out of a basket. “Here. Black coffee with two sugars! Should keep you warm till we get home. It’s a rather chilly night!”

Sherlock took the cup, still dreaming that this was part of a different story. Where Mycroft would pick him up and they would both go home. Their home. Together. Rain or sunshine or storm. Mycroft would always look after him wouldn’t he? Maybe he should tell him….maybe he should let him know that his heart was breaking….Surely Mycroft would want to fix it?

_But what if he didn’t? What if he got angry?_

And Sherlock had an image of himself out in the rain, cold, wet and miserable, standing outside Mycroft’s house with the front door closed firmly to him.

Alone. Rejected. Out in the cold.

He shuddered.

“Are you ok Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, genuinely concerned. “We don’t have to do this tonight if you are not….”

“No no, I am fine! Let’s light the fire when we get home. It’s a lovely day for a real fire isn’t it?” And Sherlock turned his brightest smile on.

.

.

That evening they lit the fire and at Sherlock’s suggestion, they never made it up to the bedroom.

“Why waste a perfectly good fire?” he said, very matter of fact.

“Hmm…ok.” Mycroft said. “If that is what you want. Let me get some sheets and warm blankets from the closet. Will you fetch some pillows from ou...my…the bedroom?”

Sherlock had been too busy gazing into the fire to notice and Mycroft swallowed in a panic.

_Watch out!!_ he told himself. _Were you about to say ‘our’ bedroom??!!_

_._

_._

The fire and the warmth and Mycroft’s smell that he inhaled with every breath made Sherlock feel intoxicated and there was a haze that seemed to envelop them both as Mycroft moved around him and inside him.

Sherlock shut his eyes tight so that he would not be tempted by those lips, the pale elegant neck arching in pleasure with him, over him, under him, as he chanted silently with every wave of ecstasy that threatened to drown him.

_I love you_ _Mycroft….. I love you….I love you_ _so much._

Later, as he lay down on top of Mycroft, limp and exhausted after his pleasure had crested, skin touching skin, marble and velvet, finally, he was sated and blissed out and quiet. His mind was serene and satisfied in ways that even the most potent drug high had never managed.

_I love you so much Mycroft. I am sorry. I am sorry!_

He felt a lump in his throat and some tears gathering under his eyelids. He quickly rolled off before Mycroft noticed anything and he kept chanting inside his head.

_Don’t kiss him. Do NOT kiss him. It’s not allowed. Do not kiss him._

He lived in terror that one day Mycroft was going to notice his feelings and put an end to their arrangement. Sherlock’s imagination was not strong enough to help him consider how he could possibly continue to exist if that happened.

He was in this too deep now.

In fact it had gone way beyond satisfying a physical need from the very first time they had been intimate. He had fallen in love, deep and hard and forever.

And Mycroft was under his skin now. And inside his lungs. And behind his eyelids. And between his synapses. He felt like his body didn’t really belong to him anymore and he was like a violin being played by Mycroft’s elegant fingers.

_Oh those fingers_ ….just thinking of them made hot desire coil up inside his abdomen.

The way those fingers would dance over his chest and skitter across his abdomen…… down to where he wanted them to be. Magic fingers that drove him crazy and turned him from soft to hard and back to soft again. Spent and ruined. Where he would happily stay forever with those fingers still holding him delicately at his most vulnerable.

But he also wanted those fingers on his thighs, tracing languid circles, moving upwards and inwards, gradually, teasing him.  He wanted them squeezing him as they reach up from behind. He wanted them tantalizing him as they brushed over his nipples.

He wondered where Mycroft had learnt this art of seduction and who else he had done it with ….and who else he had done it for……and the thought made him want to vomit.

The idea that someone else had lain like this in Mycroft’s arms, that someone else had given him pleasure…….that someone else had heard him moan……..and maybe that someone else had been allowed to kiss him on the lips…..it just filled his head with red hot possessive rage.

He wanted to set fire to that world where Mycroft belonged to anyone else, even for a second.

_Mine!_ He thought fiercely. _He is MINE!!_

But he knew that that way lay madness……they had an ‘agreement’……they had ‘rules’ …..and so he would just lie back and allow those fingers to drift across his skin, take him apart and put him back together again.

He wanted those fingers cool and slick, preparing him as he trembled in anticipation. He wanted them firm and strong, circling his hip, holding him in place as he entered him.

He wanted those fingers, light and dry on his back, smoothing invisible creases as he lay on top of his lover’s body, drowsily. He wanted those fingers slow and easy, ruffling through his hair afterwards, almost hypnotically.

But most of all he realized, he wanted them on his face.

For all his supreme control Mycroft had slipped up once, just once, and had held his face in both his hands and Sherlock had held his breath.

_Was Mycroft about to kiss him??!!_

_Could they….would he…….._

He had closed his eyes in a panic, not wanting Mycroft to see the desire in his eyes. But the moment had passed and Mycroft’s eyes had an odd expression in them as he let go of him and moved away, putting some distance between them.

Sherlock had felt a physical pain in that moment that was more like an amputation than a separation.

It was like a punch in the gut that he felt every single time when Mycroft would get off the bed once they were done. He would never stay and sleep after they had sex. He had work to do he said. So he would get up and shower, smoke and go down to his office room.

It was an unvarying routine.

The first time he had done it Sherlock had cringed. It was obvious that Mycroft couldn’t bear to smell Sherlock on him for even a few minutes after they had been together.

The pleasure of the release was just a bodily function for him. He was merely indulging Sherlock. ‘Containment’ he had called it.  It was probably not completely distasteful for him obviously, as was apparent from the flushed face and dilated pupils and quickening of his breath.

But all those were just a physiological responses after all. It would probably be the same if it was anyone else.

Mycroft may enjoy it somewhat, but he didn’t want to immerse himself in it. Relish it. Roll on the sheets the way Sherlock would when Mycroft got off the bed. He would slide down those ridiculously soft sheets and sweep his hands down the rapidly cooling side where Mycroft had been just moments ago. He would crawl up to his pillow and inhale as deeply as he could. He wanted to absorb every molecule on the bed that had been any part of Mycroft.

He would quickly roll back to ‘his’ side by the time Mycroft was out of the shower of course (and how delicious and un-believable it was that he now had a ‘side’ on Mycroft’s bed!!).

And then since Mycroft had insisted he stay over for the night, somehow, un-willingly he would fall asleep.

.

.

After they were done, Mycroft would shower and smoke and then go down and work in his office.

But what Sherlock didn’t know was that he would do it only so that he come go back up after Sherlock was fast asleep. He had calculated that Sherlock went into the deepest REM sleep around 1 am. At this time Mycroft would gaze upon his face and wonder what he dreamt of as those eyelids moved rapidly and there was a hint of a smile on those lips.

It was then and only then that Mycroft would allow himself to lean in and kiss those lips delicately, like the first snowflake falling from the sky. Softly like the dewdrop evaporating under the first rays of the sun.

He would be in such terror at the thought that this might disturb Sherlock’s sleep and that he would wake up and be disgusted at his sentiment, at his pathetic desires and would walk away and never come back again.

Mycroft shuddered at the thought and made sure that he barely touched his lips with his own but that was enough….oh it was like an entire orchestra playing inside his brain. He could hear the music of the spheres and the thrum of life itself as he leaned over and felt the soft puffs of hot breath as he stole the kiss.

He would have to use every single ounce of his incredible will power to make sure that when he kissed Sherlock he kept his hands away. When all he wanted to do was hold that beautiful face, calm in sleep the way it never was during his agitated wakefulness.

.

.

On these nights Sherlock would wake up at 3 am and let himself out and walk home, hands stuffed deep inside his pocket and scarf wrapped around his neck.

Mycroft had bought him the soft deep blue scarf to cover his neck, the day after they had had what Sherlock catalogued as ‘real sex’. Finally.

“My apologies, Sherlock.” he had said, his mouth twisted in distaste (at what they had done last night surely, Sherlock thought. He was doing it for the first time and surely Mycroft could not have any pleasure in it).

Mycroft had left a bite mark on him. Sherlock had barely noticed it when it happened because he had been so overwhelmed with all the sensations. But now, the dull pain he felt when he touched the side of his neck made him feel odd. In a good way.

It made him feel possessed. Owned.

Taken.

He also had some bruises on his hips which had gone from purple to green now. He wanted to show those also to Mycroft. He wanted to tell him that he wanted more. He wanted bruises. He wanted bites.

He wanted so many more marks all over him than anything he ever bought for him could cover up.

But he wondered if that would be considered an emotional response to all the hormones released during their encounter? All the traitorous humours of his transport….the oxytocin and the dopamine.

_Damn those chemicals._

They made him want to hold Mycroft after they had sex. They made him want to feel his arms draped around his waist and made him want to tuck his head into Mycroft’s neck and fall asleep listening to his heartbeat.

They made him want to kiss him on the lips. Breathe him in.  Taste him.

But he could not. He could never do that.

If Mycroft even had a hint of what he wanted to do, he would declare that the rules were broken. And while Mycroft may indulge him when he asked for things, if something was truly non –negotiable, he meant it.

There would be no going back.

.

.

So on these nights Sherlock would always wake up at 3 am.

He had tried a few different waking times and had discovered that 3 am was when Mycroft went into the deepest sleep.  It was when he could gaze upon his face in adoration and allow himself, trembling, half from desire and half from terror, to lean in and kiss those lips.

Fleetingly. Like a butterfly in mid- flight.

Delicately. Like the fading echoes of a musical note.

He would be so afraid of disturbing Mycroft’s sleep and having him wake up and be disgusted at his sentiment, at his pathetic desires……. but he could not resist.

He would have to use every single ounce of his failing will power to make sure that when he kissed him he kept his hands away. All he wanted to do was hold that beloved face, calm in sleep the way it never was during his worried wakefulness.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit like Rashomon or Vantage Point, every scene looks different depending on the perspective!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a tissue box+ hot chocolate + snuggly blanket alert.  
> Remember that poor heart from the first chapter?  
> Dissected? All chambers cut open, poked, prodded, sliced and then thrown in the trash?  
> Yeah……that’s what is going to happen now.

It was Friday night and although it was late, Mycroft had reviewed the CCTV tapes from his bedroom as he did every week and was deleting them.

He lingered on the one from the earlier night when Sherlock had come over.

He saw himself kiss him at 1 am as usual, and saw himself sitting and and watching that beloved face, serene in sleep.

He was very tempted to save that footage for himself to watch later but it had to go. For now he just sat watching it in a trance, dreaming impossible dreams and conjuring up impossible worlds…….

Imagine if he could wake up Sherlock with a kiss! And then they could cuddle in bed, and he would feed him breakfast. They could shower together and they could walk out hand in hand and he would spend all his time just gazing into those beautiful eyes, and kiss him. They could go on holiday together and walk on the beach. They could sit and read books—Sherlock lying down with his head on Mycroft’s lap and he would run his fingers through his hair till he fell asleep.

He would cook for Sherlock while listening to him play the violin. They would dance and they would eat. And of course all these activities would be interspersed with hundreds of kisses and vast amounts of sex.

In this beautiful imaginary world, they could exchange rings and vows……

He had no idea how long he sat entranced by this heavenly dream unfolding in his mind’s eye………and he came to with a start. It was really late!

He was about to press the delete button when he noticed something. It was 3 am.

_Oh. Sherlock was leaving. Oh no._

_Why was Sherlock doing that?? Wait what??! He was kissing him?!_

_Why?_

Mycroft felt his head spin.

_What the hell was Sherlock doing???_

_Had this entire thing been an experiment of a different kind??_

_Was it an elaborate revenge for making him go to rehab?? Was he making a mockery of his attempt for control by flouting this very simple rule??_

_What had he not done for Sherlock?!_

He had agreed to this absolutely crazy demand for sex. He had agreed to everything he wanted. He had broken taboos and laws and his own comfort zones…repeatedly!!

And all he asked for was two simple rules.

Which Sherlock was flouting so casually.

He was kissing him and leaving. Just walking away.

Probably going home and laughing at his pathetic brother and how he had been playing the fool with him by making this absurd demand which he had given in to.  

Mycroft felt his face burn with anger and shame.

_This was humiliating._

_And heart breaking._

_Was he doing it just to prove that he could break the rules?_

_Or even worse……was he….did he…?!_

_No he couldn’t possibly….it HAD to be an elaborate trick._

_Oh god!! No!!_

_This had to end. **Today**. Right now._

He wrote a message to Sherlock.

He deleted the message.

He rotated his phone in his hand wondering how to deal with this........ when he got an alert that Sherlock was with some unknown man.

Mycroft reviewed the CCTV image that was sent to his phone and quickly scanned through the pdf files that were sent.

He frowned. He sent a message to Anthea.

.

.

Mycroft barely slept that night, but the next day as soon as the morning meetings were dealt with, he found himself waiting in an empty warehouse, looking at Dr John Watson, ex-Army doctor.

New flatmate at 221B Baker Street.

“Have a seat, John.” Mycroft said.

“You know, I have a phone. You could have just called me. Nice place.” John said, sarcastically, looking around.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Homes, one learns about such places. The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” Mycroft said again.

John replied defiantly. “I don’t _want_ to sit down.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t seem very frightened.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Ah yes, the bravery of the soldier. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one!” John said, surprised. “I barely know him. I met him…yesterday.”

“Hmm and since yesterday you have moved in with him and now you are solving cases together.” Mycroft gave him a crooked smile. “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“Who _are_ you?” John asked curiously.

“An interested party.” Mycroft said, sourly.

“Interested in Sherlock?? Why? I am guessing you are not friends.”

Mycroft ignored that comment. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

John replied. ”I could be wrong but I think that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft gave a sad smile. “You may actually be right….. but I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you. Why don’t you tell him directly?”

“I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go un- noticed.”

“And why is that?” John couldn’t help asking.

Mycroft pondered that for a moment. “We have what you might call…a difficult relationship.”

And then he walked off, swinging him umbrella slightly, his heart burning like a furnace, utterly unsure of what Dr. John Watson was doing in Sherlock’s life.

.

.

Later that evening Mycroft knew he had his answer.

He received an update at 8 pm that Sherlock and John were having dinner together at Angelo’s. The photo showed them sitting there with a candle at their table.

And the expression on John’s face? It didn’t require a genius to interpret.

Mycroft’s face hardened.

 _So Sherlock had kissed him just to break his rules, _he thought bitterly _. Not because he…..not….not for any other reason. And he seemed to have moved on already._

Mycroft was surprised his interest had lasted this long, frankly.

_But now it was certainly time to end their experiment._

He wrote the message but he couldn’t get himself to send it.

He read it and re-read it with tears swimming in his eyes.

Of course he had always known it would end this way. What he had never expected was how devastating it would be.

.

.

Meanwhile at Angelo’s, John was trying to find out more about this beguiling and enigmatic man that fate seemed to have thrust into his life.

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?”

Sherlock was looking out of the window and answered in a distracted voice.

“Girlfriend? No, not my area.”

“Mmm right. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked around at him, sharply.

“Which is fine by the way.” John added quickly.

“I _know_ it’s fine.” Sherlock said with one eyebrow raised.

John smiled. “So you’ve got a boyfriend then.”

“No.”

John hummed. “Ok. You are unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.”

Sherlock blinked at him, processing the conversation and then started talking rapidly. “John…um…I think you should know that I …consider myself married to my work, and while I am flattered by your interest, I’m not really looking for any….”

“No, no!” John said in a panic.” I am not asking, no! I am just saying it’s all fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

.

.

Soon enough, they were chasing taxis and eventually ended up at Baker Street, laughing, with John having run all the way without his cane.

Mycroft was watching the CCTV feed from Angelo’s, then he saw them run around behind some taxi and then and end up at Baker Street, laughing.

_Sherlock seemed so happy. Maybe this man would make him happy. Dr. Watson seemed besotted enough._

Mycroft brought up the message he had written earlier.

He pressed send.

.

.

Meanwhile Sherlock and John went up to 221B to find a drug raid going on and D.I Lestrade sitting there like he owned the place.

Much yelling and posturing later, Sherlock sat at the table, having finally figured out what _Rache_ meant and was checking the dead woman’s emails when he noticed his phone screen showing a notification.  

 _Mycroft!_ He opened the message with a smile.

And his face fell as he read it.

He read it twice to make sure he was not imagining it.

{You broke the first rule. My personal security protocol had been upgraded and I just saw the CCTV footage from my bedroom at 3 am last night. You may consider our ‘arrangement’ terminated. Anyway, it looks like you found yourself a goldfish. Hope you will be happy together. MH}

.

.

Sherlock just stared at the message, still unable to believe what he was reading.

_There was a CCTV in the bedroom?? Mycroft had seen him…..and he just…that’s it??_

_No discussion? No negotiation? No second chances?? No wonder they called him the Ice Man_ he thought bitterly, barely able to hear what Mrs. Hudson was saying to him about some taxi driver waiting for him.

The case of the serial suicides. He had wanted to solve it so he could make Mycroft proud of him. To make him see that he could also do something clever. Contribute something good to society. He could hold down a career. He wasn’t just a useless junkie.

_And now?? What did anything matter now?_

He headed towards the door.   
John asked him here he was going.

Hmm? Sherlock replied, looking distracted.” Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

He slipped out and went downstairs and saw the taxi driver.

Suddenly all the clues fell into place. The taxi driver. Of COURSE it had been the taxi driver!!!

.

.

Half an hour later Sherlock sat in front of Jeff Hope, the taxi driver and was about to swallow the pill.

_What difference did it make if he lived or died? Mycroft had just discarded him like yesterday’s newspapers. He might as well die._

He lifted the pill up to his mouth and was going to put it in whena perfectly aimed shot killed Jeff.

Sherlock jumped at the sound and then realized what had happened. He rushed to Jeff’s side. He needed a name from him before he died!

“Moriarty.” Jeff said just before he breathed his last

.

.

Scotland Yard turned up just seconds later, lights flashing and brakes squealing and Sherlock fund himself wrapped in an orange blanket.

Later, when things had been dealt with and they were walking away from Lestrade, John asked him.

“You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. _“_ Maybe.” He said finally.

“Why Sherlock?? Why would you want to die??”

“Maybe because I have nothing to live for?”

“What? Why would you say that??”

“Remember I told you that I am married to my work?”

“Yeees. What has that got to …..”

“Well. I was just telling you what he told me once.”

“He?”

“The one I love.”

“So …if you love someone…...why don’t you have anything to live for?”

“He broke up with me. This evening.”

“Sherlock!!” John looked at him in despair. “That is not how things work! For fuck’s sake!! If he broke up with you--- you don’t kill yourself!!! You go back and let him know how you feel! You negotiate!!”

“I broke one of his rules. It was non –negotiable he said.”

“Oh Sherlock!!”

.

.

Just then they came upon Mycroft as he stepped out of his car and strolled up to them.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ...” Mycroft said, faint sarcasm in his tone.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been experiencing your ‘concern.’ Sherlock said, with venom in his tone.

“Always so aggressive.” Mycroft said smoothly. “Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no!” And Sherlock turned around and walked away with John.

.

.

“Ok…” John said. “I have no idea what the hell just happened and why this man is so interested in you, but you and I are going to get dinner and you are going to tell me all about this man you love.

He saw that Sherlock was about to protest and he added. “Don’t tell me who he is. Tell me how he is.”

Half an hour later, they sat down at 221B with the Chinese takeaway and as they ate Sherlock spoke.

“He is ……..everything to me John. He has taught me so much. Poetry, dance, science, languages. He is so brilliant. Way smarter than I will ever be. And we have so much fun together….he has a wicked sense of humour. And…he is so considerate and caring and he always looks out for me.” Sherlock gave a sad smile. ”He never says no to me.”

“Almost never” he whispered, one tear starting to trickle down his cheek.

“Oh Sherlock! He sounds wonderful and I am sure that he loves you very much! Surely you can fix this??” John put an arm around his shoulders, utterly distressed at the state Sherlock was in.

“I don’t think so. He loves his rules more than me.” Sherlock said bitterly. “I tried everything. He is a genius. Really. But he….I tried to show him how much I love him…but he just doesn’t understand.”

“How long have you known him?”

“All my life.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Childhood sweethearts?!” John smiled. “That’s amazing!”

Sherlock looked up, dazed. “Childhood sweethearts?! Yes….I suppose you could say that. In a way.”

“Hmm...so did you actually tell him you love him?” John asked, trying to diagnose what the problem could be.

 _No_ Sherlock shook his head.

“Has he ever told you he loves you?”

“Not in so many words…no.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just know. “

“Ok, ‘genius’” John said, grinning. “So maybe he also ‘just knows’ that you love him! Maybe there is a reason he is choosing to break up with you. You should go there and at least try Sherlock! Go! I was going to say I will stay up and wait for you in case it doesn’t work out and you come back but somehow I think you are not going to. I cannot imagine _anyone_ who loves you that much, who is _insane_ enough to love you that much, can possibly reject you! Go now!”

And he pulled Sherlock up from his chair, helped him with his scarf and coat and practically pushed him out of the flat.

“Go!! And good luck!”

Sherlock climbed downstairs, not feeling the same level of hope as John was…Hope! He remembered that he had taken the pill that Hope had given him and kept it in his coat pocket later. He searched for it and found it. He held it in his right hand.

_Ok. So if Mycroft rejected him again, he still had a way out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogues adapted from the brilliant transcript from Ariane de Vere’s post here  
> https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembered how he had fantasized about living inside his beloved Mycie’s rib cage, inside his heart, woven into every heartbeat……..and today ??  
> Today Mycroft had just torn him out from there and thrown him in the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been written to the soundtrack of this Barns Courtney song in my head :) so do listen to it to get you in the mood too, if you like that kind of thing!
> 
> Something about his body language of rebellion and despair just gave me all the feels…....for what Sherlock would look like, going into Mycroft’s house that night.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IrV90gXmOpA
> 
> These are the opening lyrics:
> 
> I am flesh and I am bone  
> Rise up, ting ting, like glitter and gold  
> I've got fire in my soul  
> Rise up, ting ting, like glitter  
> Like glitter and gold  
> Like glitter  
> Do you walk in the valley of kings?  
> Do you walk in the shadow of men  
> Who sold their lives to a dream?  
> Do you ponder the manner of things  
> In the dark  
> The dark, the dark, the dark

Through the entire taxi ride, Sherlock sat slumped down, staring blankly outside the window as London sped past him.

He was remembering all the moments, the hours, the occasions that he had spent with Mycroft in the past month. And how wonderful it had been. Like a dream. They had not fought even once. Mycroft had been so caring……so loving. Sherlock had felt like he was cocooned by his presence, safe and silent, without all the sharp and jarring noises of the world that had always troubled him so much.

In this month, all of a sudden, the words ‘eternity’ and ‘love’ and ‘soulmates’ had become so heavy with meaning and he had nurtured such hopes in his newly-discovered heart. He remembered how he had fantasized about living inside his beloved Mycie’s rib cage, inside his heart, woven into every heartbeat……..and today ?? Today Mycroft had just torn him out from there and thrown him in the trash.

_Was Mycroft even capable of understanding love?? Of the passion and the longing and the craving……the desire to be one with one’s lover? And now he was doomed to suffer the misery of unrequited love…….because one thing he knew for certain---there would never be anyone else for him other than Mycroft. Ever._

He had tried so hard! He had been considerate, he had been careful, he had wanted so badly to make Mycroft happy…. and if that involved following his stupid rules then he would do it.

But that third night when he had been first tempted to kiss him…….he had really been helpless. He simply could not have walked away from Mycroft in that cold pre-dawn hour without leaving some token of his love. He knew that they were having sex and many people would view that as a token of love already. But he also knew that it was only the ‘experiment’. The ‘containment’.

This…the kiss …it was his token of love.

And then he had been unable to resist doing it every time they slept together. Only he knew how much willpower it would take to actually leave after he kissed him………..when all he really wanted to do was get into the bed with his beloved Mycie and kiss him and kiss him for hours and hours….and then cuddle with him and never leave the bed for days…..or ever again.

But of course Mycroft and his ridiculous rules. Sherlock scowled. _Always the good one. Always the obedient one. All about the control and the conditions and regulations and stipulations. Always disapproving. Always disappointed by him. Nothing would ever be good enough._

_HE would never be good enough._

Sherlock was getting angrier and angrier as he came closer to Mycroft’s house.

John had sent him with all good intentions but it wasn’t as though Sherlock had some inner Dalai Lama to channel into.

Just like Mycroft tapped into his inner Ice Man, what Sherlock emerged as when under stress was Redbeard.

The ruthless pirate.

Swashbuckling, pillaging, looting the ships and making survivors walk the plank.

He was going to unleash chaos into that world of control.

The Pirate was going to destroy the British Government.

It was in this mood that he stepped out of the taxi and started to pick the lock on the front door.

_Mycroft was going to punish him for breaking his rules??! Huh._

_He would show Mycroft what breaking rules really looked like._

.

.

.

It was almost midnight when Mycroft heard the lock being picked.

He didn’t even bother to look up.

Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock.

_And if it wasn’t Sherlock and someone else had come to kill him, well, they were welcome to._

_._

_._

Sherlock came in and saw Mycroft sitting in his chair, coat flung on the sofa, tie loose, a drink in his hand and a terrible look on his face.

Sherlock picked up the bottle from the table next to him and looked at the label and read out.

“The Macallan Sherry Oak 30 Year Old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey.” He whistled. “2000 pounds a bottle. Well, well, well. Surprising! I thought you would be mourning rather than celebrating that I managed to survive. That I didn’t die and remove my pathetic needy self from your life once and for all.”

At this Mycroft did look at him and the look was of such pure fury that even Sherlock stopped and blinked.

He had never ever in his entire life seen Mycroft so angry.

This was not even anger. This was the opening act of the dance of destruction.

The world was going to burn.

Oddly enough it gave Sherlock the courage to do what he had come to do.

Sure, the world was going to burn, because he, Sherlock, was going to set fire to it.

_He couldn’t possibly make Mycroft hate him any more than he already did now, could he?_

So he held the bottle and looked at Mycroft and said “Yes, Mycroft, I broke your STUPID ridiculous rule. And you know what? May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. I will break your rule the way I _really_ wanted to.”

And before Mycroft could comprehend or react, Sherlock took a swig from the bottle and with his mouth full of the drink, he strode up to Mycroft and sat on his lap, tilted Mycroft’s chin up and locked lips with him, letting the drink pour into Mycroft’s mouth.

He felt it spill over Mycroft’s throat and he felt him swallow and then he pushed his tongue in--- exploring, sucking, tasting, holding Mycroft’s face and simply kissing him deeper and deeper and more fiercely and hungrily till their lungs almost exploded from a lack of oxygen.

When they finally tore apart, panting, Sherlock rested his forehead against Mycroft’s and spoke in a voice rough with emotion.

“I want you to know that I also broke your second rule My. I love you. I am in love with you. I love you with a desperation that you cannot even imagine. Why do you think I was about to take the pill?? John may have saved me today but who do you think is going to save me tomorrow?  And the day after? And the day after that? Who can save me if I don’t want to live My?? And I don’t want to live without you.”

Suddenly all the bravado, all the anger was gone. He felt drained as he slipped off Mycroft’s lap and stood there with his head bowed.

“But you don’t love me. And I am sorry Mycroft. You deserve better. I am sorry.”

Mycroft had just been so utterly dazed through this entire outburst, it was as though it was all happening to someone else. He looked like a man who had been dropped into an alternate universe. He looked completely wrecked.

Sherlock wiped his eyes and spoke, not looking at him anymore, his hand searching for the pill in his pocket.

“Goodbye Mycroft. Live long and prosper.”

.

.

.

Sherlock turned on his heels and was almost out of the door when Mycroft sprang out of his chair, shouting.

”Sherlock!!!! Stop!!! Please Sherlock Stop! STOP!! I am sorry! I am so sorry!!”

Sherlock stopped and turned around slowly, curious. “Sorry for what?”

“Can I show you something? Please??!” Mycroft begged, taking him by the hand and leading him into the office room.  

He switched the screen on and showed him the CCTV footage.

Sherlock stood there, not sure why he was showing him this.

Mycroft rewound it to 1 am.

“I broke the first rule too.” Mycroft said, in a shaking voice.

“But……why?” Sherlock was so baffled. _This clue made no sense….._

“Because …..I had broken the second rule too.” Mycroft whispered.

“What?!”     _What was Mycroft saying??!_

“Eight years ago Sherlock. On the day I saw you when you came to London. I am sorry!! I am so, so sorry!! I was just trying to protect you Sherlock…….I am your older brother. How could I …..It was not right. Please forgive me?” he was openly weeping now.

Sherlock blinked. Once. Twice.

“You IDIOT Mycroft.” Sherlock yelled as he finally understood what was being said. “Protect me from whom??!! From your love?? YOUR love? From YOU?? Those are the things that keep me alive Mycroft. Oh My. You IDIOT.”

Sherlock was laughing and crying now. He swept all the files off the table and perched himself on it and held Mycroft by the shoulders and actually shook him!

“Do you have any idea what you have done My?? I was going to kill myself because you rejected me. Oh Mycroft, come here.” And he pulled him off the chair and he held him and embraced him. He wiped his tears. He kissed him on the forehead.

_His idiot of a genius brother. The smart one?!_

Sherlock looked at him and saw his face tormented by sorrow and guilt and misery, tears still spilling down his cheeks, and his heart melted.

Mycroft. Always the protector. Always the one ready to stand in the line of fire so that he could save Sherlock.

Of course he would forgive him!! He loved him!!

And Mycroft loved him back?!! He had kept the secret for 8 long years??!

Sherlock felt a chill going down his spine as he wondered whether Mycroft would have _ever_ have revealed his love if it hadn’t been for this insane ‘experiment’?? _Would they both have lived miserable lonely lives till the end of their days, when love, breath-taking heart-stopping love, was just an arm’s length away??!_

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I will forgive you Mycroft, but there is one condition.”

“Anything!” Mycroft said, so relieved that Sherlock was even willing to consider forgiving him after all this heartache, all this drama. “Anything you want.”

“Hmm…. actually there are TWO conditions. Like the ones you had.” Sherlock said, suddenly enjoying himself now with the stress gone and the anger melted away. Only joy bubbling through his blood.

“First: We will no longer have sex.”

_What?!!_ Mycroft blinked. _What in the….. what??!!_

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, looking EXACTLY like one of his favourite goldfish.

“Oh you IDIOT Mycie. We will no longer have sex……because…. we will only make love.” Sherlock laughed, carefree and high on happiness. Ecstatic.

Mycroft smiled and shook his head, trying to calm his racing heart. Sherlock was truly going to be the death of him one day!

“And the second condition, my Lord and Master?” Mycroft asked, grinning from ear to ear like a fool.

“The second condition is that from now on we are going to follow my rules.” Sherlock declared. “My way. Every day. You had your chance and you messed it up. So now my rules are that you have to kiss me every morning---for at least an hour. And you have to make love to me every night. More than once is also fine. Oh, and any extra times during the day is also fine.” He said airily, waving his hand, like a King granting a boon. “And in between both those things you have to tell me that you love me…. at least 24 times. Every day.”

Mycroft was about to open his mouth to say something when Sherlock stopped him with his finger to his lips.

“Shhh. I am still talking. Oh yes, and I don’t care how you manage it. Get my DNA records changed, say I am adopted, convince Mummy, run away with me. Do whatever it takes. But I am going to be by your side _forever_ Mycroft and there is no force on earth that can keep me away from you now.”

Mycroft was just unable to even process all these demands, let alone respond to them! He blinked, feeling more and more like a real goldfish. _What had he unleashed?!_

“You were trying to protect me?!” Sherlock scoffed. “Be careful what you wish for Mycroft. Now you will need to protect yourself from me. Because I am going to take you...lover boy.” He growled as he hooked his fingers into Mycroft’s belt loops and pulled him closer as he claimed his lips and kissed him again and again. And mumbled against his lips.

“And I am never _ever_ going to let you go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may want to leave the train at this station :) cos this is where a regular romantic story would end with a fadeout scene and some bright and hopeful background score…..
> 
> For those of you willing to risk my attempt at a grand finale---keep calm and carry on—to the next chapter which I will post tomorrow!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The world is violent and mercurial — it will have its way with you…..We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”  
> Tennessee Williams

“Oh Sherlock!” Mycroft breathed when the kiss finally turned softer and slower and Sherlock was now just showering him with kisses all over his face. “I love you so much…..so much…. I can’t even find ways to express it. You have no idea….no idea how many deaths I died since seeing that footage and then…” Mycroft swallowed.

_Dare he ask? But the time for secrets was truly over now wasn’t it?_

Sherlock noticed his hesitation and asked him. “What is it My? What happened?”

Mycroft looked away. “I saw you with Dr. Watson and I thought…”

“You thought what?” Sherlock asked, genuinely perplexed.

“I thought…..well, you seemed to be having fun and you had a dinner by candlelight and the way he was looking at you…”Mycroft stopped.

Sherlock was just gawping at him with eyes wide and he facepalmed.

“Honestly Mycroft?!! John?? Who I have known for exactly one day??The candlelight dinner was because that prize idiot Angelo insists on doing that every time I go there. He is the one I saved from the murder charge. Overly emotional Italian.” And Sherlock gave an elaborate shrug imitating him. “And as for John---in fact he insisted that I come here and tell you how I feel.”

“He did?!” Mycroft asked, slightly alarmed at the thought that John knew. “He didn’t seem very friendly when I …” he stopped suddenly and coughed.

“When you what?” Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes. “Mycie…did you kidnap him and threaten him?!”

“Hmm…maybe….?” Mycroft said, looking rather embarrassed.

Sherlock laughed and slapped his thighs. “Honestly Mycie?! Didn’t you learn your lesson with Lestrade and with Molly?! I know you think you are the smart one but don’t forget that I learnt from you. I am a rather good judge of people! I only ‘consort’ with the best.” he said and winked and pulled Mycroft into one more passionate kiss.

“Oh Mycie…”Sherlock said breathlessly when they separated. “I don’t know how to make you believe how much I love you…I worship the ground you walk on you _idiot_ , I just…”

And he slid off the table and onto his knees and pulled at Mycroft’s belt, undid his trousers and kissed him on his half hard erection.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” he mumbled as he gently used his fingers to free it from his pants and then took it in his mouth.

Mycroft wasn’t sure if he could remain standing at the sight of his Sherlock looking at him so worshipfully and taking him in his mouth.

In his office.

This was way beyond his wildest fantasies and he wasn’t sure he deserved this _at all_ after his abysmal behaviour and suspicions and rejections.

“Sherlock love, you don’t have to….” he whispered, running his hands through his lover’s wild curly mane.

_I do_ Sherlock nodded and he pleasured Mycroft till he was sure his knees were going to buckle and when Sherlock hummed around him, he could no longer hold back. As he watched Sherlock swallow his release he knew he was never going to forget this moment till the end of days.

He almost collapsed on the floor and pulled Sherlock on his lap and kissed him and kissed him till they just simply couldn’t kiss anymore. Their lips were swollen and their hair was a mess and they were both so utterly wrecked that they just sat like that, all cuddled up on the floor and laughed and laughed till they cried.

It had been the worst and the best day of their lives, all rolled into one.

Sherlock recovered first and got off the floor and gave Mycroft a hand.

“Let’s get you to the bedroom.” he said. “Tomorrow is another day and we need to have a serious discussion about how we are going to manage to stay together, but for now, I want us to make love in your….our bed.” He smiled. “And then I want to sleep cuddled up with you for hours on end.”

“Your wish is my command Sire!” Mycroft said, only half mockingly as he was hauled up. He had never been able to say no to Sherlock his little brother……. _so what were the chances that he was ever going to say no to Sherlock his lover?_

They went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Mycroft suddenly remembered the CCTV and looked at Sherlock, worried, but Sherlock instantly realized what he was thinking.

“Let it stay on.” He winked. “Save the footage for later. Maybe we can have some very private movie nights!”

And then he laughed at Mycroft’s expression which was half outrage and half frank desire.

.

.

At that second, some miles away, from one of the most secure ‘civilian’ flats in London, a message was sent out.

{Lazarus is a go.}

The reply came three seconds later.

[ _Will be there at 4 am_.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short but I added some hot stuff :P and also , obviously the chapter had to end at the cliffhanger!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What God has joined together let no person put asunder.”

Mycroft and Sherlock were rudely woken up at 3.30 am by the light being switched on in the bedroom.

Mycroft was wide awake instantly thanks to his years of Secret Service training.

And he knew this person standing here by his bed, dressed fully in black.

In fact he saw her every single day.

“Anthea?!” He said, astonished beyond words.

.

.

_What the HELL was Anthea doing in his bedroom??! And how did she gain access?? And why did the alarm not go off and oh my GOD Sherlock was in his bed and both of them were completely naked and …_

“Please Mr. Holmes!” Anthea said, raising one gloved hand in a universal gesture of STOP. “You are thinking too loudly!”

Sherlock was also fully awake by now and equally aghast.

Mycroft’s brain had retreated into the back of his skull and was only reciting known facts since it simply could not cope with any other cognitive function at this point.

  * Anthea.
  * Aka Anastasia Romanov.
  * Double agent with the KGB.
  * Born on 9th February 1989. Moskva.
  * Left handed.
  * Trained assassin.
  * Best kill shot record from 2.4 km.
  * High grade neurotoxin expert.
  * Known allergy to….



 

His list recital came to a sudden halt when Anthea spoke.

“Here.” Anthea said, tossing a medium sized suitcase on the bed. “It contains everything both of you need to change your appearance and leave the country. Passports and drivers licenses in the names of Mr. Mark Willis and Mr. Ross Willis, civil partners. There are also scissors, hair dye, clothes, shoes, coloured lenses, spectacles……that kind of stuff.”

“What?!” Mycroft said. “Why do we need to leave the country??”

Anthea almost rolled her eyes and recited in a bored voice.

_“ **Any male person who has sexual intercourse with a person related to him** in a degree specified in column 1 of the Table set out at the end of this subsection, shall be guilty of incest, unless the accused proves that he or she_

_(a) **did not know** and had no reason to suspect that the person with whom he or she had sexual intercourse was related in a degree so specified; or_

_(b) **did not consent** to have sexual intercourse, or to have sexual intercourse with that person; or_

_(c) **was married to that person** , at the time when the sexual intercourse took place, by a marriage entered into outside Scotland and recognised as valid by Scots law._

_Subject to subsection (6), a person guilty of such offence shall be liable on conviction on indictment, to **imprisonment for any term of imprisonment up to and including life imprisonment; “**_

**_._ **

**_._ **

She paused and then asked. “Does that answer your question?”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged looks.

“You don’t know what you are…..”Sherlock started to say.

“Oh I do know _exactly_ what I am saying.” Anthea replied. “We don’t have much time. In exactly 45 minutes the power in this area will shut down…. mysteriously. All CCTV cameras inside the house and on the streets will malfunction and you will take the unmarked car parked at the back and go to the safe house as per the paper map kept on the front seat. Destroy the map when you reach. Change your clothes and appearance and leave by the Bond Air flight going to New York from Heathrow at 11 am.

“Why New York?” Sherlock asked.

“Hiding in plain sight.” Anthea said, tapping a finger to the side of her head. “Both of you have too many enemies here to keep you in Europe. You will stand out too much in Asia, Africa and Latin America. In New York no one will look at you twice.”

“Why are you doing this?” Mycroft finally asked. “How…?”

Anthea took pity on him.

“Sir, you keep forgetting that when you rescued me and saved my life five years ago during that undercover mission in Serbia which went spectacularly wrong, you made me indebted to you for life! You keep tabs on Sherlock for his safety and I have been keeping tabs on you for the same reason. I noticed Sherlock coming to visit you often in the past month and leaving the house at odd times. For ordinary folk that usually means sex is taking place. I didn’t know how to get more information from you-- so I could keep you safe if what I suspected was true. Fortunately the Russian spy story broke just then and I used the excuse to get you to put CCTV cameras in your bedroom. As I had expected-- you gave me the password for access.”

She waited as Mycroft absorbed all this information, too stunned to speak.

“You _cannot_ keep this a secret for too long Mr. Holmes. Not without someone finding out and destroying you and your career. And even after that you may still not be able to live together. I have been planning this for two weeks now. Since the evening you spent by the fireside in fact.”

Both the brothers blushed as they realize the implications of what Anthea was saying.

She laughed. “Don’t worry, I only took a peek. Just to check on what was going on. But it gave me an idea. Do you know that over 200 cases of spontaneous human combustion have been reported worldwide? We could always blame an open fire, or cigarettes or acts of God or sorcery or even the Russians. Magnussen will surely be thrilled to put that on the front pages of all the papers he owns.

I have an accomplice who will help me fake your deaths and it will also look good for my KGB bosses. You know it’s a tough life for us double agents Sir.”

Just then her phone buzzed and she answered. “Yes the door is unlocked-- come right in. We are in the bedroom upstairs.”

She turned to Mycroft and said “You may want to wear some clothes.”

Mycroft and Sherlock scrambled to wear their discarded clothes.

Mycroft’s mind was whirring with the possibilities. He went through 108 possible outcomes in less than a minute and realized than what Anthea was offering was probably as perfect a solution as any they could possibly have.

Sherlock was grinning at Mycroft, absolutely delighted that his wish was coming true.

Just as Mycroft was tucking his shirt in there was a soft knock on the door and it opened to reveal a young woman with dark hair tied into a braid on the side.

.

.

“Molly?!” Sherlock said, not sure he could possibly be shocked any more at this point.

“MI5. And my eyes on Sherlock for the last 3 years.” Anthea said.

Molly gave a happy smile and lifted her bulky knitted jumper to reveal a Kevlar vest and a leather belt with all manner of weapons, slung across her toned abdomen.

“Hiding in plain sight.” Molly said to Sherlock with a wink. “I will be faking all the records needed and Anthea will make sure that Gregory will be assigned this case…..”

“Who is Gregory?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Lestrade!” All three of them exclaimed.

“Oh. Ok ok…..I always thought he was Graham…or Gavin…..” Sherlock muttered.

“So.” Anthea said, looking at her wrist watch. “In 15 minutes from now the power will go down and you will leave. Molly and I will make sure that this place burns down to the ground. I will take your laptop Sir and all the documents from the safe in the office room and make sure that they are destroyed in a more permanent way and that all the CCTV feeds are deleted.”

As the implications of what they were about to do finally sank in, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and said, “Sherlock, are you sure about this? We will be dead to all those we know. We can never come back. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I think Lestrade will have a tough time with his cases.” Sherlock said. “And maybe John and the landlady will be a bit sad.  I am sure that our parents will be rather devastated……..but if that is the price to pay to be with you? Then the answer will always be YES Mycie. Always.”

Sherlock stepped close to Mycroft, held that beloved face and gave him a deep kiss that left him in no doubt about his answer.

Anthea cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt but the countdown begins!”

She smiled at Sherlock. “Don’t worry about Lestrade. He will soon discover that Molly is just as brilliant at deductions as you were. Way better behaved too! And since Dr Watson tried to ask me out twice in the last 24 hours, maybe I will take him out on a date and then find someone more suitable for him for the longer term. I have a friend who wants to give up the assassin job. Maybe train as a nurse. Let’s see.

As for your parents, we will find a way to let them know the truth but only once their mourning has been seen by the world. I guess at that point knowing that you are not dead may make them feel more accepting about your new relationship.”

Molly held the bedroom door open and said “Every good old fashioned fairy tale needs some good old fashioned ladies- in- shining- armour!! Just get yourselves to New York safely and leave the rest to us.”

Mycroft had a sudden moment of panic. “Anthea…”

“Sir, it _is_ the right decision. Do you know how I know?? Because ever since I suggested it you have not asked me _even once_ what will happen to Queen and Country! This is right thing to do Mr. Holmes. Go now. Live happily ever after!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Please don’t kill me haha :P but there is also an epilogue which I have posted right away.
> 
> 2\. Chekov said in 1889. “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired.  
> So really, as soon as Anthea was mentioned in chapter 9 this was inevitable!
> 
> 3\. Anastasia is a common Russian feminine name and is of Greek origin, meaning "resurrection". Which kind of fits with Lazarus also cos Lazarus of Bethany is the subject of a prominent miracle-- in which Jesus restores him to life four days after his death.
> 
> 4\. Fanart used in the montage is from here https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/683421312177202743/


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. Of a kind.

 

Here is another Barns Courtney song that is perfect to read with/ after this chapter to make it into an immersive experience !

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLEoictM8p4>

Fire

Lonely shadows following me  
Lonely ghosts come a-calling  
Lonely voices talking to me  
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone  
And my mother told me son let it be  
Sold my soul to the calling  
Sold my soul to a sweet melody  
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone

Oh gimme that fire  
Oh gimme that fire  
Oh gimme that fire  
Burn, burn, burn

Oh, a thousand faces staring at me  
Thousand times I've fallen  
Thousand voices dead at my feet  
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone  
And my mother told me son let it be  
Sold my soul to the calling  
Sold my soul to a sweet melody  
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone

 

 

***Anthea and Molly being a team was an idea I got from a line eloquated wrote in our co-written fic Come Back Safe (You Belong to Me), so thanks El for that <3

 

***As for the happily ever after: Fortunately for me LadyGlinda already wrote a poignant ‘happily ever after’ story just a few weeks ago so I shall point all of you in that direction and hope she won’t spank me for stealing her aliases for my grand finale!! Her fic has a slightly different back story of course but it is lovely! So I didn’t want to write a separate one at this point.

<https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950694>

 

***It’s been such a fabulous ride and my muse has been on fire and the comments have been so lit that I honestly feel like I could retire from fanfic writing after this high point…. 

Haha, just kidding  :P

See you all soon in the next fic J

 

 

 

 


End file.
